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AMAZING STORIES. Vol. 27, No. 7, Oct -Nov 1953. is published bi-monthly by the Ziff-Davis Pub
lithing Company at 64 E. lake St., Chicago 1, Illinois. Entered os second-closs matter at
the Post Office, Chicago, III. under the oct of March 3, 1879. Authorized by Post Office Department,
Ottawo, Canada, as second-class matter. Postmaster— please return undelivered copies under form
5679 to 64 E. Lake St.. Chicago 1, III. Subscription rates: U. S-, Canada, Mexico, South and Central
America and U. S. Possessions, $4.00 for 12 issues; British Empire and all other foreign countries,
$5.00 for 12 issues.

OCT.-NOV. 1953

VOLUME 27 NUMBER 7

AMAZING

STORIES

Zlff-DAVIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
Editorlol and Executive Offices
346 Madison Avenue
New York 17, New York

Chairman of the Board
and Publisher

WILLIAM B. ZIFF

President
B. G. DAVIS

Vic* Presidents —

N. J. MORGANROTH

Production Director
LYNN PHILLIPS, JR.
Advertising Director
H. G^ STRONG
Circulation Director
LOUIS ZARA
Associate Editorial Director

Secretory-Treasurer

G. E. CARNEY
Art Director

ALBERT GRUEN

CONTENTS

THE BIG TOMORROW

By Paul Lohrman 4

BESIDE STILL WATERS

By Robert Shockley 19

A WAY OF THINKING

By Theodore Sturgeon 24

LITTLE GIRL LOST

By Richard Matheson 50

THE MATHEMATICIANS

By Arthur Feldman 62

VISITOR FROM THE VOID

By Richard Wilson 66

THE HANDS

By Richard Sternbach 78

THE SLOTHS OF KRUVNY

By Vem Fearing 80

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

By H. L Gold and Robert Krepps ... 88

Coven Art Sussman

Editor

HOWARD BROWNE

Managing Editor Assistant Editor

PAUL W. FAIRMAN MICHAEL KAGAN

Art Editor

HERBERT W. ROGOFF

Illustrator: Sanford Kossin

THE

BIG TOMORROW

BY PAUL LOHRMAN

There are certain rare individuals in this world who seem bereft
of all common sense. These are the people who set their eyes upon
an objective and, immediately all intelligence, logic, good ad-
vice, unsolvable problems, and insurmountable obstacles go com-
pletely by the boards. The characters we refer to are obviously just
plain stupid. What they want to do, just can't be done. The ob-
jectives they have in mind are unachievable and anyone with an
ounce of brains can tell them so and give them good reasons. They
are usually pretty sad cases and often land in the funny house.
But then again, some of them go out and discover new worlds.

H e hadn’t gotten any work done
that morning. He’d spent
most of the time pacing the floor
of his small back office, and the
rest of it at the window — hands
clasped behind his somewhat
bowed back — staring up into the
cloudless sky.

At ten-forty, the intercomm
buzzed. He snapped the switch.
“Yes?”

“I’ve got those figures, Mr.
Lake. We have nine — ”

“Maybe you’d better come in
and tell me personally, Lucy.”
“All right, Mr. Lake.”

The intercomm snapped off and
a few moments later a girl entered
the office — if the prim little wisp
that was Lucy Crane could be
so generously classified.

Joshua Lake stared at the elon-
gated bun of black hair on the top
of her head as she came toward his
desk. There was an odd streak of
rich imagination in Joshua Lake
and lie always felt Lucy Crane’s
bun was a symbol of disapproval.
“Sit down, Lucy. You use up too
much energy.”

“ I try to do my job, Mr. Lake.”

“You do that — and more.

What are the figures, Lucy?”

“We’re in desperate shape. We
have nine thousand, four hundred
and twenty dollars in the payroll
account. That leaves it over five
thousand short. There is only
about two thousand in General
Disbursements, but that isn’t
enough to cover invoices due to-
morrow. I’m afraid — ”

“Don’t be afraid, Lucy. That’s
negative. If we waste our time
sitting around shivering, we won’t
make any progress at all.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,
Mr. Lake. I’m not shivering. I was
merely stating that we haven't
got enough money.”

“Then I’ll go to the bank and
get some more.”

“Of course, Mr. Lake. Is that
all? ”

“Yes, that’s all, Lucy. You run
on to lunch.”

“You aren’t going out?”

“No. I’m not hungry today.”

Her bun bobbed in disapproval
as she left the office. Joshua Lake
stared at the closed door and
sighed. Lucy knew exactly how
things were. She wasn’t one to be
fooled. But Joshua hoped the rest
of the personnel were not so per-
ceptive. The engineers and the
draftsmen particularly. They could
all walk out at noon and be work-
ing somewhere else by one o’clock,
what with the huge current indus-
trial demand.

He walked again to the window;
an old man; bone-weary, with the

weight of his sixty-odd years bend-
ing his shoulders like a brick-
carrier’s hod.

“ Then I'll go to the bank and get
some more." He hadn’t even fooled
himself this time. His chances at
the bank were nil. Less than nil.
His very presence there could tip
the balance of their decision. Loans
could be called; the doors locked
before nightfall.

At the window, he lowered his
eyes from the sky and looked to
the gate that led into the home-
shoe sweep of low buildings and
back to the great, bulking hangar
where precious work was being
done.

A man and his dream, Lake
mused.

He could see only the back of
the sign hanging over the gate,
but he was quite familiar with the
other side. Lake Interstellar Enter-
prises in bold, brave letters; and
in the lower right-hand corner —
barely discernible — Joshua Lake
— President.

A visitor looking closely at the
sign could see that it had been
done over — that a discarded leg-
end lay beneath a coat of white
paint. The old name of the firm
was still faintly visible '• Lake and
Gorman — Castings and Extru-
sions.

It wasn’t difficult for Joshua to
conjure up Lee Gorman’s craggy,
hostile face. Nor his words. Lee
had a voice like gravel being

AMAZING STORIES

ground to powder. A voice to
remember . . .

“Of course I won’t go along
with this damn-fool idea of yours!
Turn a perfectly sound, entrenched
business into a blue-sky factory?
You’ve gone crazy, Joshua.”

“But it’s feasible, Lee! En-
tirely feasible. All we need is a
little imagination. I’ve investi-
gated. I’ve hired the best brains
in the world. I have all the neces-
sary preliminary data. A rocket
can be built that will take three
men to the Moon and bring them
back! ”

“That’s idiocy, Joshua!”

“Don’t you believe it can be
done? ”

“I don’t care whether it can
be done or not!”

“But open your eyes, man!
This is an age of development.
An era of movement. We're on
the threshold of the big tomorrow,
and we can’t let it pass us by!
We can’t let the honor and the
glory go to others while we sit on
our hands and hoot from the
gallery! Come alive, Lee! The
world is passing us!"

“ I don’t want honor and glory.
All 1 want is a sound going busi-
ness. Suppose we could put a
rocket on the Moon and bring it
back? Where would that leave us?
Broke and famous. And laughed
at probably in the bargain.”

“ Nothing of the kind. We could
write our own ticket. We’d con-
trol the gateway to the greatest

mineral deposits within reach of
Man! Think of it, Lee. Use your
imagination.”

“I won't go along with you,
Joshua. That’s all there is to it.”

More of the same; days of it,
and finally: ‘‘You can have the
customers then, Lee. I’ll keep the
plant — the physical properties.”

‘‘But that’s not fair.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s legal.”

“How can I service them —
from my basement?”

“I offered you an alternative
only a fool would have turned
down — ”

“That only a fool would ac-
cept!”

“ — so now I’m going ahead
and nothing can stop me. I’ve got
a dream, man — a dream of a big
tomorrow. I’m going to make that
dream come true.”

“ Name it right, Joshua. You’ve
got an obsession.”

The end of Lake and Gor-
man. . . .

Joshua turned from the window,
then paused and looked again into
the sky. The Moon was up, a
round, white will-o-the-wisp in
the clear blue afternoon sky. He
stared at it and the old feeling of
affinity swept over him, stronger
than ever. The Moon was, for
him, both a goal and a tonic. Sight
of its illusive form could always
sweep away his doubts; straighten
his shoulders.

The intercomm buzzed. Joshua
went over and snapped it. “Yes?”

THE BIG TOMORROW

“Mr. Coving to see you, sir.”

“Send him in.”

Rayburn Coving was probably
the best rocket-fuel man in the
world. He had a little of his sandy
hair left, not much, and his fore-
head was permanently creased
from frowning. “I’m afraid that
new benzoic! derivitive is a failure,
Chief. It piles up corrosion in the
tubes too fast. They’d be clogged
halfway through the trip.”

One hundred and twenty thou-
sand dollars up the spout. Joshua
sighed. “Well, I suppose the
chance of success was worth it.
The added power in relatively
smaller space would have solved
so many other problems.”

“I’m sorry it failed.”

Joshua smiled. “To paraphrase
a certain American inventor —
we’re finding any number of ways
you can’t go to the Moon. What
now, Coving?”

“Back to the old method —
and the other problems. None of
them are insurmountable, though.
A little more time — ”

“Yes — a little more time.”
Joshua grimaced inwardly. He
was talking to Coving as though
they had years — not as though
their time had run out. He was
even in debt for Coving’s labor;
overdrawn on it without enough
money to pay.

The moment of weakness — of
deep-down weariness — passed.
Joshua Lake stiffened as he had
stiffened so many times before.

As he had stiffened when Zorn-
off’s alloys had flunked put and
the first trip to the bank had been
made necessary. The first trip to
the bank. Joshua smiled wryly.
The bank people had been cordial
then. Even servile. Later it had
been different. Now —

‘‘You were saying, Mr.
Lake— ?”

“Have you seen Morton lately?
What’s the latest on the radar
relay equipment?”

“No major bugs, I think. It’s
coming along famously.”

“Good!” For two hundred odd
thousand it certainly should,
Joshua felt. “Let me know how
you make out, Coving.”

“1 will, Chief. I'll get the order
in for the new chemicals im-
mediately.”

“Eh — oh, yes. Do that. Do
that by all means.”

Coving left. Joshua Lake put
his head against the back rest of
the chair and closed his eyes. He
dozed, drifting into a haze from
weariness. It's been so long — so
very long. Seven years — eight —
ten. Ten years. Good heavens! Was
it possible? It didn't seem that long.
Ten years to make a dream succeed.

Or fail.

Joshua slept and again — as in
the past — his rest was plagued
with visions. The torment of his
days took many forms in an alert
subconscious too taut to relax. He
had seen before him mountains
too steep to cross — chasms too

AMAZING STORIES

deep and wide to bridge. Often,
when a great problem was solved,
he would look back, nights later,
to see the mountain or the chasm
from the other side.

Now his vision was different.
No mountain before him, but a
face — the stern craggy face of an
obstacle in his path.

Lee Gorman.

The face was of clay — yet it
lived. The eyes were cold, distain-
ful. And a weird, green creation of
Joshua's own mind was sketching
Gorman in the numbers, signs,
and symbols of a rocket that
would never reach the Moon.

Joshua awoke with a start and
found Lucy bending over him.
"You didn’t answer the buzzer,
Mr. Lake. I was worried."

"I must have dozed off, Lucy.
Sorry."

"I’m going home now — if
there’s nothing else.”

"Nothing else. I’m going home
myself. Good night.”

Joshua paused beside his car
in the parking lot to stare at the
lighted windows of the big hangar.
The second shift had come on.
They would work all night; then,
tomorrow, they would line up with
the others at the pay window.
But there wouldn’t be any money.
The next night the hangar win-
dows would be dark.

He got into the car and drove
home.

Myra was waiting for him. She
took his hat. After he kissed her,

she said, "Your eyes are red,
dear. You've been working much
too hard. Shall we have dinner in
the patio?”

"That would be nice.”

Joshua had little to say during
the meal, and Myra was quiet
also — adjusting herself, as she
had always done, to his mood.
Finally, she said, "That will be
all, Bertha. Leave the coffee pot.”

The maid left. A slight chill
was coming in off the desert.
Joshua shivered and said, "We’re
through, Myra.”

"Through? 1 don’t understand.”

"The Moon trip. I can’t swing
it. The money’s run out. There’s
no place I can raise another
dime.”

" But you’ve worked so hard —
and so long! And you are so close
to success.”

"We’ve made a lot of progress,
but the rocket isn't ready yet.
Now it’s too late.”

They were silent for a time.
Then Myra said, "In a way, I’m
glad. You should have stopped
long ago. You aren’t strong
enough to stand this pace forever.
Now we can go away — get a
small place somewhere. That
Moon rocket was killing you,
Joshua.”

Joshua pondered the point
" Killing me? No, I don’t think so.
I think it has been keeping me
alive.”

"Don’t say that, dear! You
make it sound so — so brutal!

THE BIG TOMORROW

Year in and year out. Fighting dis-
appointment — failure. Aging be-
fore my eyes while I sit here night
after night!”

Fighting disappointment — fail-
ure. Yes. That was the kind of
fight it had been. How many fail-
ures? The first big one had come
six years before. . . .

‘‘Acceleration, Monsieur, must
be achieved in the first two thou-
sand miles of flight. After that, the
speed of the ship remains con-
stant.' You follow me?” Tardeau,
the half-mad French genius had
explained it so logically. And
Joshua had believed in him.
That's where you made your big
gamble in a project of this kind.
You selected your men and then
believed in them. Others dis-
sented, of course. There are al-
ways dissenters. And always points
that could not be proven or dis-
proven on the drawing boards or
in the test pits . . .

“I follow you, Henri. The
booster units will be in three
sections.”

“Exactly, Msieu. The primary
— ah, booster, as you say, breaks
free at twelve miles. That one,
and the secondary, we control
with radar. We touch a button
and Voila! they are free!”

“ Jn case of the men in the ship
blacking out, 1 think you said.”

“Exactly. But the third will be
disengaged from within the ship
and she will be free as a bird to

fly to your most illusive Moon!”

“And the return?”

“There we have a much lighter
ship, Monsieur. The smaller boost-
ers will lift her easily. The return
trip will be slower — much slower,
but she will return!”

Michael Bernard was the dis-
senter. “The Frenchman’s crazy!”
Mad as a hatter, Chief.”

“You think it won’t work,
then? ”

“Too damn complicated. A
dozen units of time and mecha-
nism have to mesh perfectly. The
odds are against that happening.
After all, you’ve got to remember,
what we’re attempting has never
been done before.”

“But if it did work — ?”

“It would be a beauty.”

“Better than your idea of a
single booster? ”

“If it worked — yes. The
weight problem would be solved.
Five men could ride the rocket.
But — ”

“Let’s try it, Mike. Let’s be-
lieve in our destiny.”

“Okay — you’re the boss. But
destiny's a hard thing to lay out
and analyze on a drawing board.”

A man and his dream. . . .

The radar equipment had failed.
Burdened with the weight of ex-
hausted booster sections, the rocket
curved back into the clutches of
gravity.

It crashed on the fringe of the
Amazon jungles.

Five Moon pioneers dead. Three

AMAZING STORIES

uninsured, dependent families.
Joshua provided for them, but
the critical newspapers over-
looked that point. One editorial
observed that Joshua Lake would
get a rocket to the Moon and back
if it took every able-bodied man in
the country. The project would
have died right there if Joshua
had needed money. No bank in
the nation would have loaned him
a dime. Fortunately he was not
yet broke. He started over.

Fortunately?

At times he had wondered. But
always, his faith had returned to
buoy him up . . .

Joshua reached out and took
Myra’s hand. He looked up into
the sky. “You may be wrong, my
dear. Possibly it’s the other way.
A man's ambition — ” he smiled.
“Lee called it an obsession once.
A man’s dream can keep him
alive.”

“But why does it have to be so
hard? Why can’t one of the big
corjx>rations help you? They'll
profit from your success!”

“At least I had no competition
in the fulfillment of my dream.”

They were silent for a time;
then Myra said, “But now you
can rest. We’ll go away. We don’t
need much money. We’ll have a
garden. You can lie in the sun.”

He laughed softly; not with
humor; rather from a quiet, new-
welling courage. We’re talking as
though it were all over — finished,

done with. That isn’t right.”

She glanced at him quickly.
“ But you just said — ”

“I know. But I didn’t really
mean it that way. We aren’t
through yet.”

“You know where you can
raise — more money?”

“I know where it is. I’m going
to see Lee Gorman tomorrow.”

“Lee Gorman! You aren’t se-
rious.”

“There’s no place else to go.”

“You’ll be wasting your time,
Joshua. He’ll — he’ll humiliate
you.”

“He probably will. And I may
not get the money. But there’s no
place else to go.”

Tears came into Myra’s eyes.
“ Don’t do it, Joshua. Please don’t
do it.”

“It won’t be as bad as you
think, dear. I guess Lee is entitled
to crow a little.”

Lee Gorman looked at the in-
tercomm on his desk as though it
had snapped at him. “Who?” he
barked. But there had been no
mistake. Gorman sat in puzzled
silence for a few moments. Then
he said, “All right, show him in.”

Joshua Lake entered the office
with his hat in one hand and a
briefcase in the other. He paused
halfway to Gorman’s desk. “You
haven’t changed much, Lee.”

“You have,” Gorman answered.
“You look like the devil."

“I’ve been working hard.”

THE BIG TOMORROW

Joshua Lake covered the inter-
vening distance and stood before
the desk. Gorman surveyed him
coldly — up and down. Joshua
looked around the office as Gor-
man sat silent, not inviting him to
sit down.

“You’ve done very well, Lee.
This is the first time I’ve seen
your plant.”

“I’ve expanded a little since
my basement days. You remem-
ber my basement days, don’t you
Joshua?”

Joshua winced. “Yes I re-
member.”

“And now you might tell me
the purpose of this visit.”

“I came to you because I need
money.”

Gorman’s eyes snapped open —
wide. He opened his mouth to
speak. He failed, tightened his
throat and tried again. “You
came here after what? ”

“Money. I'm broke, Lee. I
haven’t enough to meet my pay
roll.”

“You expect me to bail you
out — clean up your debts t — put
you clear?”

“I came after more than that.
Merely bailing me out wouldn’t
help a bit. I need three hundred
thousand to put my rocket in the
air.”

Gorman collapsed gently back
into his chair like a balloon merci-
fully relieved of some of its con-
tent. When he spoke, it was with
a slow, controlled viciousness.

“I’ve heard of guts, Joshua. I’ve
heard of gall — plain unmitigated
nerve. But this tops anything —
why man, you threw me out! You
robbed me! You left me standing
in the street with a bookful of
names and addresses under my
arm — nothing more. Now you
come here and ask for money!”

“I’m glad you’ve done well,
Lee. There was nothing personal
in what I did. I’m glacl you’ve
gone on to even bigger things
than we would have achieved
together.”

“You're glad I’ve done well!
Why you pious hypocrite ! I ought
to have you thrown through the
window instead of merely ordering
you out!”

“There is no reason why I
should expect any better treat-
ment, Lee. But I had to come
here. You were my last hope. I
had to ask.”

Joshua turned slowly from the
desk. He had taken but three
steps when Lee Gorman said,
“Wait a minute. I’m curious. Are
you really still at it — beating
your brains out against that stone
wall?”

“It’s my dream, Lee. I’ve got
to be the first man to put a rocket
on the moon.”

“But now you’re broke —
washed up. What’s with the dream
now?”

“I guess it’s finished.” Joshua
turned and took another step; but
Gorman was loath to let him go.

AMAZING STORIES

“Tell me,” Gorman said. “What
have you got in that briefcase?”

“Progress reports. Plans. I
wanted to show them to you.”

Gorman grinned. “All right.
I’ve got a few minutes. Come and
do it.”

Joshua Lake retraced his steps.
He sat down in a chair next to
Gorman’s desk. He laid his hat on
the desk and snapped open the
case.

“No,” Gorman said. "Stand
here by my elbow. The chair is for
people 1 meet on even terms.”

Joshua got obediently to his
feet and placed himself as directed.

“And your hat,” Gorman
added. “You’d better hold that.
You might forget it when you
leave.”

“Of course, Lee.”

It was a ludicrous, pitiful sight
but, withal, a grim note ran
through the scene. Joshua sup-
porting the case against his thigh,
got out a sheaf of papers. These
are the progress reports to date.
These, the projected plans.”

“And when these plans are
carried out you expect success?”

“Yes. Great foresight has been
used. They will carry us through.”

“And you expect me to loan
you money on the strength of this
— this day-dreaming on paper?”

“It’s far more than that, Lee.
You’ll find the plans sound.”

Lee Gorman didn’t give a tink-
er’s hoot for the plans. He was
only enjoying an interview — a

vengeance — he was loath to ter-
minate. “You haven’t even begun
to show me what I ’d need before I
even considered loaning you a
dime.”

“I’ll bring you anything you
want.”

“Even if I promise to turn you
down after I’ve gone over it.”

“You’re calling the dance, Lee.”

“All right — I’ll call it. Bring
me your payroll records; your cost
sheets; the background reports on
the key men in your organization.”

“As soon as I can get them. 1
need some money immediately to
meet my payroll.”

“Then what are you waiting
for?”

“I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Joshua was halfway out the door
when Lee Gorman called. “And
bring the deeds to your plant —
the bills of sale to your machinery
and equipment.”

“Certainly.”

Joshua left and Lee Gorman sat
motionless staring at the surface
of his desk. There was a Mona
Lisa smile on his rugged face.

“It’s not worth it, Joshua,”
Myra said, hotly. “You won’t
be able to take his brow-beating
and badgering day after day. And
that’s his intention. That’s what
he’s giving you the money for —
for the pleasure of humiliating
you day after day.”

“Of course, my dear. I'm for-
tunate that Lee is that kind of a

THE RIG TOMORROW

man. He wants his revenge and
he’s willing to pay for it. I was
hoping it would be that way —
praying for it. It was my last
weapon. The last weapon I had
with which to beat the Moon.”

A man and his dream . . .

‘‘I want you to sign these pa-
pers, Joshua.” Lee Gorman held
out a pen and pushed the papers
across the desk.

“Certainly, Lee.”

“ Four copies.”

Joshua pushed the papers back,
looked at them and smiled. “Do
you know what you signed?"

“A power of attorney, I be-
lieve. And I’ve signed the plant
over to you. There is a large
mortgage against it, however.”

Lee Gorman sat back, narrowed
his eyes as he looked at the wiz-
ened little man with the giant ob-
session. “Joshua, I think you’ve
worked beyond your time. You’ve
slipped your gears completely. Do
you realize that with these papers
I can put you in the street? That
all I have to do is raise my hand
and you’re done?"

“ I realize that, Lee.”

“Then why on earth did you
sign them?”

“ I had no alternative.”

“But what kind of an alterna-
tive is this? Giving away every-
thing you’ve got?”

Joshua sighed. “You haven’t
raised your hand yet, Lee. I can
surmount my difficulties only as I
come to them. I’ll think about

that one when it gets here.”

“Well — r I’ve got news for you.
The time to think about it is — ”
Gorman stopped in mid-sentence.
He studied Joshua Lake for a long
minute. Then he took a check-
book from his desk and wrote
rapidly. “There’s money to meet
your payroll. The exact amount.”
Take it to the bank. Then, I want
you in this office every day at
four-thirty with a complete report
of what’s gone on. Don't overlook
a thing. And bring any bills with
you that want paying, together
with material orders and projected
costs. Is that clear?”

“I understand, Lee.” At the
door, Joshua Lake turned for a
moment. “And — thank you —
thank you very much.”

After Joshua had left, Lee Gor-
man pondered one of those last
words. If they contained any bit-
terness, it was well hidden. “A
strange man,” Gorman muttered.
"A very strange man.”

If that constituted a weak mo-
ment on the part of Lee Gorman,
his dikes were repaired well in time
to present a hostile front. . . .

“This twelve thousand to Amer-
ican Chemical — what are you do-
ing — running an experimental
laboratory on the side. I won’t
pay it.”

“I’ve never questioned Cov-
ing’s judgment in these matters,
Lee. He’s done brilliant work for
us. The man has to have materials
to work with.”

AMAZING STORIES

“Well, you certainly should
have questioned him. He’s been
satisfying every whim of curiosity
that pops into his mind. Send
the stuff back."

“But that would be fatal to the
project. The fuel must be power-
charged to safely handle the
weight and time quotients. Cov-
ing can't work with salt and
baking soda.”

“I don’t care what he works
with. Cut three thousand off that
bill."

“Very well, Lee.”

A man and his dream . . .

“This payroll’s out of all rea-
son. Cut fifteen men off imme-
diately.”

“ I’ll see what I can do.”

“Cut fifteen men off immedi-
ately.”

“Of course.”

“Here’s a check for the inter-
est on the last note. Take it over
to the bank.”

“Yes, Lee.”

Joshua Lake came and went as
directed. He stood with his hat in
his hand, took orders, carried
them out. His shoulders drooped
a little more; his face became more
pinched; he retreated deeper and
deeper into himself.

But as the days went on, his
eyes brightened and there was a
breathlessness in his expression
when he turned his face to the sky.

THE BIG TOMORROW

. Some three months after the
day Joshua walked into Lee’s
office, the latter said, “The four
men who are going with the
rocket. You’ve selected them?”

“Yes. They’re waiting for the
day. It was a long slow process,
selecting the best equipped men.”

“Bring them here tomorrow
afternoon.”

“I’ll check with them. If they
all can't make it, would a later
date — ?”

“ I said tomorrow. See to it they
can make it.”

“Yes, Lee.”

Joshua brought the four young
men to Lee Gorman’s office the
following day. Lee had a buffet
table set up. He was the smiling,
genial, expansive host. “Sit down
gentlemen. I’m glad of this op-
portunity to meet you.”

There were five chairs in the
room. Gorman had already seated
himself. The young men hesitated.

“Sit down, sit down.”

They dropped into the chair,
glancing uneasily at Joshua Lake.
Joshua turned and started toward
the door.

“Don’t go, Lake. I’m sure the
boys would like a drink. You’ll find
the fixing on the buffet. Why don’t
you take their orders?”

The crowning insult, Joshua
wondered. The last, crude insult?
Lee Gorman’s wounds must have
been deep indeed. Joshua served
drinks, brought sandwiches. Lee
Gorman’s geniality kept the awk-

wardness of the situation from
bringing it to a complete stand-
still. “Well, Thursday is the day,
I understand. How do you feel
about it? Rocketing off into space.
Becoming a part of the big to-
morrow.” Gorman's eyes caught
those of Joshua Lake as he spoke
the last sentence. There was laugh-
ter behind them.

The crew of the Moon rocket left
shortly afterward. Joshua was the
last to walk from the room. Just
as he was going through the door,
Lee Gorman whispered into his
ear. “You can’t be sure there’ll
be a rocket flight. I might stop it
the last minute. I haven’t made
up my' mind yet.”

Joshua turned and looked at his
tormentor in silence. The others
had gone on down the hall. Gor-
man laughed and said, “ I suppose
that’s a problem you’ll face when
you come to it? ”

“Yes — when I come to it."

Alone in his office, Lee Gorman
strode angrily to the buffet. With
a sweep of his arm, he knocked a
liquor bottle across the room. The
motivation of the act was hard to
determine, however, from Gor-
man’s outward appearance. It
could have bitter disappointment
or a fierce joy.

Joshua Lake walked into Lee
Gorman’s office, removed his hat
and said, “With your permission,
this is the day.”

“What time?”

AMAZING STORIES

“It translates into 4:07 and 30
seconds, Greenwich time.”

Gorman scowled. “1 suppose
you’ve arranged quite a party."

“Nothing too spectacular.
We’ll leave for the blasting pits at
3:00 o’clock. I’d be honored if
you’d ride with me.”

“Do you still own a car?”

“A small one. Its value is neg-
ligible."

“We’ll go in one of mine. Be
here at five minutes to three."

“Certainly.” Joshua put his
hat on and walked out. . . .

They rode across the Nevada
desert in a black Cadillac with the
chauffeur sitting at attention and
staring straight ahead. Joshua
stared straight ahead also. He
asked, “Are you going to stop
the flight?”

Beside him, leaning forward,
clutching with both hands, the
silver knob on a black mahogany
cane, Gorman replied, “1 haven't
made up my mind yet.”

A dot on the desert expanded
into a pit, a tower, and some small
buildings. The car followed the
ruts of the tractors that had
hauled the rocket to the launch-
ing site, and came to a halt.
“That small, glass encased plat-
form,” Joshua said. “We’ll view
the proceedings from there.”

Gorman snorted. “I’ll view
them from where I please.”

They were standing beside the
car, Joshua slightly behind his
benefactor. “From the platform.”

Gorman scowled and half
turned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m holding a gun against your
back. It is a very small gun. No
one can see it and it probably
wouldn’t kill you. Then again, it
might. We will walk to the plat-
form and stand together to watch
the blast-off.”

“You’d actually — kill, to get
that ship into the air?”

“If I committed murder, 1
would certainly regret it the rest
of my life, but the rocket must be
launched."

They stood in the glass en-
closure on the platform and no
one came near them. Several peo-
ple veered close and waved.
Joshua waved back with his free
hand and the people went on their
way.

An hour passed. There was vast

"It's really surprising how civilized
they are.”

THE BIG TOMORROW

activity on the field. Gorman said,
“I’m tired. I want to sit down.”

“It was thoughtless of me. I
should have provided chairs. It
won’t be long now.”

It wasn’t long. Five minutes
later there was a roar, an explo-
sion of color, and a silver rocket
flash up into the sky almost faster
than the eye could follow.

Gorman slammed the heel of his
hand against the side of his head
in order to restore hearing. “You
can put that gun away.”

“Of course. And you’ll want to
call the police.”

Gorman growled like an an-
noyed bull. He jerked open the
door and strode away.

Three hours later, Joshua and
Myra Lake were seated in the
small patio beside their home.
They were seated very close to-
gether, and Myra was stroking
Joshua’s hand. "It’s been a long
time, dear; a very long time.”

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?"

“ I'm — well, satisfied — at least
partially. We’ve passed a big
milestone. But it isn’t over yet."

“You’re sure this time, though?"

“Very sure.”

“Thank heaven we won’t have
much longer to wait.”

The wait was slightly less than
ten minutes. Then Lee Gorman
strode into the patio. Joshua
sprang to his feet. “Any news?”

“Yes.”

“Then they should have phoned

me. I left word to be called.”

“No one could get up the cour-
age. The rocket crashed in Can-
ada.”

Joshua swayed. When he looked
at Lee, his eyes were filled with a
mute plea. “That is the truth?”

“It’s the truth. The first flash
said it appears the tail broke off
in high space.”

Joshua sank into his chair.
“The crew — died?”

“Four more men sacrificed to
your — ” Gorman stopped and did
not use the word obsession. There
was too much agony in Joshua’s
face. “I’m taking the plant —
I’m taking everything. I’ve got to.
I’ve paid for them.”

Lee Gorman walked from the
patio. His steps echoed and died.

Joshua and Myra sat for a long
time in silence. Myra was holding
his hand. Finally she spoke. “ Well,
at least it’s over. Now you can
rest. Successful or not — you’ve
earned it.”

Joshua turned and looked into
her face — looked at her as though
she had just entered. “Oh no,
my dear. You certainly don’t ex-
pect me to — ”

“Joshua!”

“Why I’m only sixty-three. I
never felt better in my life. I have
a lot of good productive years
ahead.”

“ Joshua ! What are you going
to do?”

“I’m going to be the first man
to send a rocket to the Moon.”

AMAZING STORIES

BESIDE

STILL

WATERS

BY ROBERT SHECKLEY

When people talk about getting away from it all, they
are usually thinking about our great open spaces out
west. But to science fiction writers, that would be
practically in the heart of Times Square. When a man
of the future wants solitude he picks a slab of rock
floating in space four light years east of Andromeda.
Here is a gentle little story about a man who sought
the solitude of such a location. And who did he take
along for company? None other than Charles the Robot .

M ark Rogers was a prospec-
tor, and he went to the
asteroid belt looking for radio-
actives and rare metals. He
searched for years, never finding
much, hopping from fragment to
fragment. After a time he settled
on a slab of rock half a mile
thick.

Rogers had been born old, and
he didn't age much past a point.
His face was white with the pallor
of space, and his hands shook a

little. He called his slab of rock
Martha, after no girl he had ever
known.

He made a little strike, enough
to equip Martha with an air
pump and a shack, a few tons of
dirt and some water tanks, and a
robot. Then he settled back and
watched the stars.

The robot he bought was a
standard-model all-around
worker, with built-in memory and
a thirty-word vocabulary. Mark

BESIDE STILL WATERS

added to that, bit by bit. He was
something of a tinkerer, and he
enjoyed adapting his environment
to himself.

At first, all the "robot could
say was “Yes sir," and “No
sir.” He could state simple prob-
lems: “The air pump is laboring,
sir.” “The corn is budding, sir.”
He could perform a satisfactory
salutation: “Good morning, sir.”

Mark changed that. He elimi-
nated the “sirs” from the robot’s
vocabulary ; equality was the rule
on Mark’s hunk of rock. Then he
dubbed the robot Charles, after a
father he had never known.

As the years passed, the air
pump began to labor a little as it
converted the oxygen in the plan-
etoid’s rock into a breathable at-
mosphere. The air seeped into
space, and the pump worked a
little harder, supplying more.

The crops continued to grow
on the tamed black dirt of the
planetoid. Looking up, Mark
could see the sheer blackness of
the river of space, the floating
points of the stars. Around him,
under him, overhead, masses of
rock drifted, and sometimes the
starlight glinted from their black
sides. Occasionally, Mark caught
a glimpse of Mars or Jupiter.
Once he thought he saw Earth.

Mark began to tape new re-
sponses into Charles. He added
simple responses to cue words.
When he said, “How does it
look?” Charles would answer,

“Oh, pretty good, I guess.”

At first the answers were what
Mark had been answering him-
self, in the long dialogue held
over the years. But, slowly, he
began to build a new personality
into Charles.

Mark had always been sus-
picious and scornful of women.
But for some reason he didn't
tape the same suspicion into
Charles. Charles’ outlook was
quite different.

“What do you think of girls?”
Mark would ask, sitting on a
packing case outside the shack,
after the chores were done.

“Oh, I don’t know. You have
to find the right one.” The robot
would reply dutifully, repeating
what had been put on its tape.

“I never saw a good one yet,”
Mark would say.

“Well, that’s not fair. Perhaps
you didn’t look long enough.
There’s a girl in the world for
every man.”

“You’re a romantic!” Mark
would say scornfully. The robot
would pause — a built-in pause
— and chuckle a carefully con-
structed chuckle.

“I dreamed of a girl named
Martha once,” Charles would
say. “Maybe if I would have
looked, I would have found her.”

And then it would be bedtime.
Or perhaps Mark would want
more conversation. “What do you
think of girls?” he would ask

AMAZING STOKIES

BESIDE STILL WATERS

again, and the discussion would
follow its same course.

Charles grew old. His limbs
lost their flexibility, and some of
his wiring started, to corrode.
Mark would spend hours keeping
the robot in repair.

“You’re getting rusty,” he
would cackle.

“You’re not so young your-
self,” Charles would reply. He
had an answer for almost every-
thing. Nothing involved, but an
answer.

It was always night on Martha,
but Mark broke up his time into
mornings, afternoons and eve-
nings. Their life followed a simple
routine. Breakfast, from vegeta-
bles and Mark’s canned store.
Then the robot would work in
the fields, and the plants grew
used to his touch. Mark would
repair the pump, check the water
supply, and straighten up the
immaculate shack. Lunch, and
the robot’s chores were usually
finished.

The two would sit on the pack-
ing case and watch the stars.
They would talk until supper,
and sometimes late into the end-
less night.

In time, Mark built more com-
plicated conversations into
Charles. He couldn’t give the
robot free choice, of course, but
he managed a pretty close ap-
proximation of it. Slowly, Charles’
personality emerged. But it was

strikingly different from Mark’s.

Where Mark was querulous,
Charles was calm. Mark was
sardonic, Charles was naive. Mark
was a cynic, Charles was an
idealist. Mark was often sad;
Charles was forever content.

And in time, Mark forgot he
had built the answers into
Charles. He accepted the robot
as a friend, of about his own age.
A friend of long years standing.

“The thing I don’t under-
stand,” Mark would say, “is why
a man like you wants to live here.
I mean, it’s all right for me. No
one cares about me, and I never
gave much of a damn about any-
one. But why you?”

“Here I have a whole world,”
Charles would reply, “where on
Earth I had to share with billions.
I have the stars, bigger and
brighter than on Earth. I have
all space around me, close, like
still waters. And l have you,
Mark.”

“Now, don’t go getting senti-
mental on me — ”

“I’m not. Friendship counts.
Love was lost long ago, Mark.
The love of a girl named Martha,
whom neither of us ever met.
And that’s a pity. But friendship
remains, and the eternal night.”

“You’re a bloody poet,” Mark
would say, half admiringly. “A
poor poet.”

Time passed unnoticed by the
stars, and the air pump hissed

AMAZING STORIES

and clanked and leaked. Mark
was fixing it constantly, but the
air of Martha became increasingly
rare. Although Charles labored in
the fields, the crops, deprived of
sufficient air, died.

Mark was tired now, and barely
able to crawl around, even with-
out the grip of gravity. He stayed
in his bunk most of the time.
Charles fed him as best he could,
moving on rusty, creaking limbs.

‘‘What do you think of girls?”

‘‘I never saw a good one yet.”

‘‘Well, that’s not fair.”

Mark was too tired to see the
end coming, and Charles wasn’t
interested. But the end was on
its way. The air pump threatened
to give out momentarily. There
hadn't been any food for days.

‘‘But why you?” Gasping in

the escaping air. Strangling.

11 Here I have a whole world — ”

“Don’t get sentimental — ”

“And the love of a girl named
Martha.”

From his bunk Mark saw the
stars for the last time. Big, bigger
than ever, endlessly floating in
the still waters of space.

“The stars ...” Mark said.

“Yes?”

“The sun?”

shall shine as now.”

“A bloody poet.”

“A poor poet.”

“And girls?”

“I dreamed of a girl named
Martha once. Maybe if — ”

“What do you think of girls?
And stars? And Earth?” And it
was bedtime, this time forever.

Charles stood beside the body
of his friend. He felt for a pulse
once, and allowed the withered
hand to fall. He walked to a
corner of the shack and turned
off the tired air pump.

The tape that Mark had pre-
pared had a few cracked inches
left to run. “I hope he finds his
Martha,” the robot croaked, and
then the tape broke.

His rusted limbs would not
bend, and he stood frozen, staring
back at the naked stars. Then he
bowed his head.

“The Lord is my shepherd,”
Charles said. “I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in
green pastures; he leadeth
me . . .”

AMAZING STORIES

BY THEODORE STURGEON

What's to say about a story by Ted
Sturgeon except that the by-line it-
self is all many people need to shell
out the price of the magazine and
head straight for an easy chair. So
all we'll say is that this one is by
Sturgeon and that it's about voodoo.
You don't like to read stories about
voodoo? Well, neither do we, but
wait up, chum. This is Sturgeon
voodoo. That makes it an entirely
different thing. You're in for a rare
treat.

I ’ll have to start with an anec-
dote or two that you may have
heard from me before, but they’ll
bear repeating, since it’s Kelley
we’re talking about.

1 shipped out with Kelley when
I was a kid. Tankships, mostly
coastwise: load somewhere in the
oil country — New Orleans, Aran-
sas Pass, Port Arthur, or some
such, and unload at ports north of
Hatteras. Eight days out, eight-
een hours in, give or take a day
or six hours. Kelley was ordinary
seaman on my watch, which was a
laugh; he knew more about the
sea than anyone aft of the bridge.
But he never ribbed me, stum-
bling around the place with my
blue A.B. ticket. He had a sense of
humor in his peculiar quiet way,
but he never gratified it by proofs
of the obvious — that he was
twice the seaman I could ever be.

There were a lot of unusual
things about Kelley, the way he
looked, the way he moved; but
most unusual was the way he
thought. He was like one of those
extra-terrestrials you read about,
who can think as well as a human
being but not like a human being.
Just for example, there was that
night in Port Arthur. 1 was sitting
in a honkytonk up over a bar
with a red-headed girl called Red,
trying to mind my own business
while watching a chick known as
Boots, who sat alone over by the
jukebox. This girl Boots was
watching the door and grinding
her teeth, and I knew why, and I
was worried. See, Kelley had been
seeing her pretty regularly, but
this trip he’d made the break and
word was around that he was
romancing a girl in Pete's place —
a very unpopular kind of rumor
for Boots to be chewing on. I also
knew that Kelley would be along
any minute because he’d prom-
ised to meet me here.

And in he came, running up
that long straight flight of steps
easy as a cat, and when he got in
the door everybody just hushed,
except the juke-box, and it sounded
scared.

Now, just over Boots’s shoulder
on a little shelf was an electric fan.
It had sixteen-inch blades and no
guard. The very second Kelley’s
face showed in the doorway Boots
rose up like a snake out of a bas-
ket, reached behind her, snatched

that fan oil the shelf and threw it.

It might as well have been done
with a slow-motion camera as far
as Kelley was concerned. He
didn’t move his feet at all. He
bent sideways, just a little, from
the waist, and turned his wide
shoulders. Very clearly I heard
three of those whining blade-tips
touch a button on his shirt bip-
bip-bip! and then the fan hit the
doorpost.

Even the juke-box shut up then.
Jt was so quiet. Kelley didn’t say
anything and neither did anyone
else.

Now, if you believe in do-as-
you-get-done-to, and someone
heaves an infernal machine at
you, you’ll pick it right up and
heave it back. But Kelley doesn’t
think like you. He didn’t even
look at the fan.

He just watched Boots, and she
was white and crazed-looking,
waiting for whatever he might
have in mind.

He went across the room to her,
fast but not really hurrying, and
he picked her out from behind
that table, and he threw her.

He threw her at the fan.

She hit the floor and slid, sweep-
ing up the fan where it lay, hitting
the doorjamb with her head, spin-
ning out into the stairway. Kelley
walked after her, stepped over her,
went on downstairs and back to
the ship.

And there was the time we

AMAZING STORIES

shipped a new main spur gear for
the starboard winch. The deck
engineer used up the whole morn-
ing watch trying to get the old
gear-wheel off its shaft. He heated
the hub. He pounded it. He put in
wedges. He hooked on with a
handybilly — that’s a four-sheave
block-and-tackle to you — and all
he did with that was break a
U-boIt.

Then Kelley came on deck, rub-
bing sleep out of his eyes, and
took one brief look. He walked
over to the winch, snatched up a
crescent wrench, and relieved the
four bolts that held the housing •
tight around the shaft. He then
picked up a twelve-pound maul,
hefted it, and swung it just once.
The maul hit the end of the shaft
and the shaft shot out of the other
side of the machine like a torpedo
out of its tube. The gearwheel fell
down on the deck. Kelley went

forward to take the helm and
thought no more about it, while
the deck crew stared after him,
wall-eyed. You see what I mean?
Problem: Get a wheel off a shaft.
But in Kelley’s book it’s: Get the
shaft out of the wheel.

I kibitzed him at poker one
time and saw him discard two pair
and draw a winning straight flush.
Why that discard? Because he’d
just realized the deck was stacked.
Why the flush? God knows. All
Kelley did was pick up the pot —
a big one — grin at the sharper,
and quit the game.

I have plenty more yarns like
that, but you get the idea. The
guy had a special way of thinking,
that’s all, and it never failed him.

I lost track of Kelley. I came to
regret that now and then ; he made
a huge impression on me, and
some times 1 used to think about
him when I had a tough problem

to solve. What would Kelley do?
And sometimes it helped, and
sometimes it didn’t; and when it
didn’t, I guess it was because I’m
not Kelley.

I came ashore and got married
and did all sorts of other things,
and the years went by, and a war
came and went, and one warm
spring evening I went into a place
I know on West 48th St. because
I felt like drinking tequila and I
can always get it there. And who
should be sitting in a booth finish-
ing up a big Mexican dinner but
— no, not Kelley.

It was Milton. He looks like a
college sophomore with money.
His suits are always cut just so,
but quiet; and when he’s relaxed
he looks as if he’s just been
tagged and it matters to him, and
when he’s worried you want to
ask him has he been cutting
classes again. It happens he’s a
damn good doctor.

He was worried, but he gave me
a good hello and waved me into
the booth while he finished up.
We had small talk and I tried to
buy him a drink. He looked real
wistful and then shook his head.
‘‘Patient in ten minutes,” he said,
looking at his watch.

‘‘Then it’s nearby. Come back
afterward.”

‘‘Better yet,” he said, getting
up, ‘‘come with me. This might
interest you, come to think of it.”

He got his hat and paid Rudy,
and I said “ Luego ,” and Rudy

grinned and slapped the tequila
bottle. Nice place, Rudy’s.

‘‘What about the patient?” I
asked as we turned up the avenue.
I thought for a while he hadn't
heard me, but at last he said,
‘‘Four busted ribs and a com-
pound femoral. Minor internal
haemorrhage which might or might
not be a ruptured spleen. Ne-
crosis of the oral frenum — or was
while there was any frenum left.”

‘‘What’s a frenum?”

‘‘That little strip of tissue under
your tongue.”

‘‘Ongk,” I said, trying to reach
it with the tip of my tongue.
“What a healthy fellow.”

“Pulmonary adhesions,” Milton
ruminated. “Not serious, certainly
not tubercular. But they hurt and
they bleed and I don’t like ’em.
And acne rosacea.”

“That’s the nose like a stop-
light, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t as funny as that to the
guy that has it.”

I was quelled. “What was it —
a goon-squad?”

He shook his head.

“A truck?”

“No.”

“He fell off something?”

Milton stopped and turned and
looked me straight in the eye.
“No,” he said. “Nothing like that.
Nothing like anything. Nothing,”
he said, walking again, “at all.”

I said nothing to that because
there was nothing to say.

“He just went to bed,” said

AMAZING STORIES

Milton thoughtfully, “because he
felt off his oats. And one by one
these things happened to him.”

“In bed?"

“Well,” said Milton, in a to-be-
absolutely-accurate tone, “when
the ribs broke he was on his way
back from the bathroom.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No I’m not.”

“He’s lying.”

Milton said, “I believe him.”

1 know Milton. There's no
doubt that he believed the man. I
said, “I keep reading things about
psychosomatic disorders. But a
broken — what did you say it
was?”

“Femur. Thigh, that is. Com-
pound. Oh, it’s rare, all right.
But it can happen, has happened.
Those muscles are pretty power-
ful, you know. They deliver two-
fifty, three hundred pound thrusts
every time you walk up stairs. In
certain spastic hysteriae, they’ll
break bones easily enough.”

“What about all those other
things?”

“Functional disorders, every
one of ’em. No germ disease.”

“Now this boy,” I said, “ really
has something on his mind.”

“Yes, I suppose he has.”

But I didn’t ask what. I could
hear the discussion closing as if
it had a spring latch on it.

We went into a door tucked be-
tween store-fronts and climbed
three flights. Milton put out his
hand to a bell-push and then

dropped it without ringing. There
was a paper tacked to the door.

DOC I WENT FOR SHOTS
COME ON IN.

It was unsigned. Milton turned
the knob and we went in.

The first thing that hit me was
the smell. Not too strong, but
not the kind of thing you ever
forget if you ever had to dig a
slit-trench through last week’s
burial pit. “That’s the necrosis,”
muttered Milton. “Damn it.” He
gestured. “Hang your hat over
there. Sit down. I'll be out soon.”
He went into an inner room, say-
ing, “Hi, Hal,” at the doorway.
From inside came an answering-
rumble, and something twisted in
my throat to hear it, for no voice
which is that tired should sound
that cheerful.

I sat watching the wallpaper
and laboriously un-listening those
clinical grunts and the gay-weary
responses in the other room. The
wallpaper was awful. I remember
a night-club act' where Reginald
Gardiner used to give sound-effect
renditions of wallpaper designs.
This one, I decided, would run
“Body to weep . . . yawp yawp;
body to weep . . . yawp, yawp;”
very faintly, with the final syl-
lable a straining retch. I had just
reached a particularly clumsy join
where the paper utterly demol-
ished its own rhythm and went
“Yawp yawpbody to weep" when
the outer door opened and 1 leaped

A WAY OF THINKING

to my feet with the rush of utter
guilt one feels when caught in an
unlikely place with no curt and
lucid explanation.

He was two long strides into
the room, tall, and soft-footed, his
face and long green eyes quite at
rest, when he saw me. He stopped
as if on leaf-springs and shock
absorbers, not suddenly, com-
pletely controlled, and asked,
“Who are you?"

“I’ll be damned,” I answered.
“Kelley!”

He peered at me with precisely
the expression I had seen so many
times when he watched the little
square windows on the one-arm
bandits we used to play together.
I could almost hear the tumblers,
see the drums stop; not lemon . . .
cherry . . . cherry . . . and click!
this time but tankship . . . Texas
. . . him! . . . and click! “I be
goddam,” he drawled, to indicate
that he was even more surprised
than I was. He transferred the
small package he carried from his
right hand to his left and shook
hands. His hand went once and a
half times around mine with
enough left over to tie a half-
hitch. "Where in time you been
keepin' yourse'f? Mow’d you smoke
me out?”

"I never,” I said. (Saying it,
I was aware that I always fell
into the idiom of people who im-
pressed me, to the exact degree of
that impression. So I always
found myself talking more like

Kelley than Kelley’s shaving mir-
ror.) 1 was grinning so wide my
face hurt. "I’m glad to see you.” I
shook hands with him again, fool-
ishly. "I came with the doctor.”

"You a doctor now?” he said,
his tone prepared for wonders.

"I’m a writer,” I said depre-
catingly.

"Yeah, 1 heard,” he reminded
himself. His eyes narrowed; as of
old, it had the effect of sharp-
focussing a searchlight beam. "I
heard!” he repeated, with deeper
interest. "Stories. Gremlins and
(lyin' saucers an’ all like that.” I
nodded. He said, without insult,
"Hell of a way to make a living.”

"What about you?”

"Ships. Some drydock. Tank
cleaning. Compass ’djustin’. For a
while had a job holdin’ a insur-
ance inspector’s head. You know.”

I glanced at the big hands that
could weld or steer or compute
certainly with the excellence I
used to know, and marvelled that
he found himself so unremarkable.
I pulled myself back to here-and-
now and nodded toward the inner
room. "I’m holding you up.”

“No you ain't. Milton, he
knows what lie’s doin’. He wants
me, he’ll holler.”

"Who’s sick?”

His face darkened like the sea
in scud-weather, abruptly and
deep down. "My brother." He
looked at me searchingly. "He's
. . .” Then he seemed to check
himself. "He’s sick,” he said un-

AMAZING STORIKS

necessarily, and added quickly,
“He’s going to be all right,
though.”

“Sure,” I said quickly.

I had the feeling that we were
both lying and that neither of us
knew why.

Milton came out, laughing a
laugh that cut off as soon as he
was out of range of the sick man.
Kelley turned to him slowly, as if
slowness were the only alternative
to leaping on the doctor, pounding
the news out of him. “Hello,
Kelley. Heard you come in.”

“How is he, Doc?”

Milton looked up quickly, his
bright round eyes clashing with
Kelley’s slitted fierce ones. “You
got to take it easy, Kelley. What’ll
happen to him if you crack up?”

“Nobody’s cracking up. What
do you want me to do?”

Milton saw the package on the
table. He picked it up and opened
it. There was a leather case and
two phials. “Ever use one of these
before?”

“He was a pre-med before he
went to sea,” I said suddenly.

Milton stared at me. “You two
know each other?”

I looked at Kelley. “Sometimes
I think I invented him.”

Kelley snorted and thumped my
shoulder. Happily I had one hand
on a built-in china shelf. His big
hand continued the motion and
took the hypodermic case from the
doctor. “Sterilize the shaft and
needle,” he said sleepily, as if read-

ing. “Assemble without touching
needle with fingers. To fill, punc-
ture diaphragm and withdraw
plunger. Squirt upward to remove
air an’ prevent embolism. Locate
major vein in — ”

Milton laughed. “Okay, okay.
But forget the vein. Any place
will do — it’s subcutaneous, that’s
all. I’ve written the exact amounts
to be used for exactly the symp-
toms you can expect. Don't jump
the gun, Kelley. And remember
how you salt your stew. Just be-
cause a little is good, it doesn’t
figure that a lot has to be better.”

Kelley was wearing that sleepy
inattention which, I remembered,
meant only that he was taking in
every single word like a tape re-
corder. He tossed the leather case
gently, caught it. “Now?” he said.

“Not now,” the doctor said
positively. “Only when you have
to.”

Kelley seemed frustrated. I sud-
denly understood that he wanted
to do something, build something,
fight something. Anything but sit
and wait for therapy to bring re-
sults. I said, “Kelley, any brother
of yours is a — well, you know.
I’d like to say hello, if it’s all — ”

Immediately and together Kel-
ley and the doctor said loudly,
“Sure, when he’s on his feet,” and
“Better not just now, I’ve just
given him a sedat — ” And to-
gether they stopped awkwardly.

“Let’s get that drink,” I said

A WAY OF THINKING

before they could flounder any
more.

“Now you're talking. You too,
Kelley. It’ll do you good.”

“Not me.” said Kelley. “Hal — "

“I knocked him out,” said
the doctor bluntly. “You’ll cluck
around scratching for worms and
looking for hawks till you wake
him up, and he needs his sleep.
Come on.”

Painfully I had to add to my
many mental images of Kelley the
very first one in which he was in-
decisive. I hated it.

“Well,” said Kelley, “let me go
see.”

He disappeared. I looked at
Milton’s face, and turned quickly
away. I was sure he wouldn't want
me to see that expression of sick
pity and bafflement.

Kelley came out, moving si-
lently as always. “Yeah, asleep,”
he said. “For how long?”

“I’d say four hours at least.”

“Well all right.” From the old-
fashioned clothes-tree he took a
battered black engineer’s cap with
a shiny, crazed patent-leather
visor. I laughed. Both men turned
to me, with annoyance, I thought.

On the landing outside I ex-
plained. “'Phe hat,” I said. “Re-
member? Tampico?”

“Oh,” he grunted. He thwacked
it against his forearm.

“He left it on the bar of this
ginmill," I told Milton. “We got
back to the gangplank and he
missed it. Nothing would do but.

he has to go back for it, so I went
with him.”

“You was wearin’ a tequila label
on your face," Kelley said. "Kept
tryin’ to tell the taximan you was
a bottle.”

“He didn’t speak English.”

Kelley flashed something like
his old grin. “He got the idea.”

“Anyway,” I told Milton, “the
place was closed when we got
there. We tried the front door and
the side doors and they were locked
like Alcatraz. We made so much
racket I guess if anyone was inside
they were afraid to open up. We
could see Kelley's hat in there on
the bar. Nobody’s about to steal
that hat.”

“It’s a good hat,” he said in an
injured tone.

“Kelley goes into action,” I
said. “Kelley don’t think like
other people, you know, Milt. He
squints through the window at the
other wall, goes around the build-
ing, sets one foot against the
corner stud, gets his fingers under
the edge of that corrugated iron
siding they use. ‘I'll pry this out
a bit,’ he says. ‘You slide in and
get my hat.’ ”

“Corrugated was only nailed on
one-by-twos,” said Kelley.

“He gives one almighty pull,” I
chuckled, “and the whole damn
side falls out of the building, I
mean the second floor too. You
never heard such a clap-o’-thunder
in your life.”

“I got my hat,” said Kelley. He

AMAZING STORIES

uttered two syllables of a laugh.
“Whole second floor was a you-
know-what, an’ the one single
stairway come out with the wall.”

“Taxi driver just took off. But
he left his taxi. Kelley drove back.
1 couldn't. I was laughing.”

“You was drunk.”

“Well, some," I said.

We walked together, quietly,
happily. Out of Kelley’s sight,
Milton thumped me gently on the
ribs. It was eloquent and it pleased
me. It said that it was a long time
since Kelley had laughed. It was a
long time since he had thought
about anything but Hal.

I guess we felt it equally when,
with no trace of humor . . . more,
as if he had let my episode just
blow itself out until he could
be heard . . . Kelley said, “ Doc,
what's with the hand?”

“ It'll be all right,” Milton said.

“You put splints.”

Milton sighed. “All right, all
right. Three fractures. Two on the
middle finger and one on the ring."

Kelley said, “I saw they was
swollen.” -

I looked at Kelley’s face and I

looked at Milton’s, and I didn’t
like either, and I wished to God
I were somewhere else, in a
uranium mine maybe, or making
out my income tax. I said, “Here
we are. Ever been to Rudy’s,
Kelley?”

He looked up at the little yellow-
and-red marquee. “No.”

“Come on,” I said. "Tequila."

We went in and got a booth.
Kelley ordered beer. I got mad
then and started to call him some
things I’d picked up on water-
fronts from here to Tierra de
Fuego. Milton stared wall-eyed at
me and Kelley stared at his hands.
After a while Milton began to jot
some of it down on a prescription
pad he took from his pocket. I
was pretty proud.

Kelley gradually got the idea.
If I wanted to pick up the tab and
he wouldn’t let me, his habits
were those of uno puneto sin
cojones (which a Spanish diction-
ary will reliably misinform you
means “a weakling without eggs”)
and his affections for his forebears
were powerful but irreverent. 1
won, and soon he was lapping up

A WAY OF THINKING

a huge combination plate of beef
tostadas, chicken enchiladas , and
pork tacos. He endeared himself
to Rudy by demanding stilt and
lemon with his tequila and des-
patching same with flawless ritual :
hold the lemon between left thumb
and forefinger, lick the back of the
left hand, sprinkle salt on the wet
spot, lift the tequila with the right,
lick the salt, drink the tequila, bite
the lemon. Soon he was imitating
the German second mate we
shipped out of Puerto Barrios one
night, who ate fourteen green
bananas and lost them and all his
teeth over the side, in gummed
gutturals which had us roaring.

But after that question about
fractured fingers back there in the
street, Milton and I weren’t fooled
any more, and though everyone
tried hard and it was a fine try,
none of the laughter went deep
enough or stayed long enough, and
I wanted to cry.

VVe all had a huge hunk of the
nesselrode pie made by Rudy’s
beautiful blond wife — pie you
can blow off your plate by flapping
a napkin . . . sweet smoke with
calories. And then Kelley demanded
to know what time it was and
cussed and stood up.

"It’s only been two hours,”
Milton said.

"I just as soon head home all
the same,” said Kelley. “Thanks.”

“Wait,” I said. I got a scrap of
paper out of my wallet and wrote
on it. “Here’s my phone. I want

to see you some more. I’m working
for myself these days; my time's
my own. I don’t sleep much, so
call me any time you feel like it.”

He took the paper. “You’re no
good,” he said. “You never were
no good." The way he said it, I
felt fine.

“On the corner is a newsstand,”
I told him. “There’s a magazine
there called Amazing with one of
my lousy stories in it.”

“They print it on a roll?” he
demanded. He waved at us, nod-
ded to Rudy, and went out.

I swept up some spilled sugar
on the table top and pushed it
around until it was a perfect
square. After a while I shoved in
the sides until it was a lozenge.
Milton didn’t say anything ei-
ther. Rudy, as is his way, had
sense enough to stay away from
us.

"Well, that did him some good,”
Milton said after a while.

“You know better than that,”
I said bitterly.

Milton said patiently, “Kelley
thinks we think it did him some
good. And thinking that docs him
good.”

I had to smile at that contor-
tion, and after that it was easier
to talk. “The kid going to live?”

Milton waited, as if another
answer might spring from some-
where, but it didn’t. He said,
“No.”

“ Fine doctor.”

"Don't!” he snapped. He looked

AMAZING STORIES

up at me. “Look, if this was one
of those — well, say pleurisy cases
on the critical list, without the will
to live, why I’d know what to do.
Usually those depressed cases have
such a violent desire to be reas-
sured, down deep, that you can
snap ’em right out of it if only
you can think of the right thing
to say. And you usually can. But
Hal's not one of those. He wants
to live. If he didn’t want so much
to live he’d’vc been dead three
weeks ago. What’s killing him
is sheer somatic trauma — one
broken bone after another, one
failing or inflamed internal organ
after another.”

“ Who's doing it? ”

“Damn it. nobody’s doing it!"
He caught me biting my lip. "If
either one of us should say Kel-
ley’s doing it. the other one will
punch him in the mouth. Right?”

” Right.”

“Just so that doesn't have to
happen." said Milton carefully,
“I'll tell you what you’re bound
to ask me in a minute: why isn’t
he in a hospital?”

“Okay, why?”

“He was. For weeks. And all
the time he was there these things
kept on happening to him, only
worse. More, and more often. 1
got him home as soon as it was safe
to get him out of traction for that
broken thigh. He’s much better
off with Kelley. Kelley keeps him
cheered up, cooks for him, medi-

cates him — the works. It’s all
Kelley does these days.”

“I figured. It must be getting
pretty tough."

“ It is. I wish I had your ability
with invective. You can’t lend
that man anything, give him any-
thing . . . proud? God!”

“Don't take this personally,
but have you had consultation?"

He shrugged. “Six ways from
the middle. And nine-tenths of it
behind Kelley’s back, which isn't
easy. The lies I’ve told him! Hal’s
just got to have a special kind of
Persian melon that someone is re-
ceiving in a little store in Yon-
kers. Out Kelley goes, and in the
meantime I have to corral two or
three doctors and whip 'em in to
see Hal and out again before
Kelley gets back. Or Hal has to
have a special prescription, and I
fix up with the druggist to take a
good two hours compounding it.
Hal saw Grundagc, the osteo man,
that way, but jxjor old Ancelowicz
the pharmacist got punched in the
chops for the delay.”

“Milton, you're all right.”

He snarled at me, and then
went on quietly, “None of it’s
done any good. I've learned a
whole encyclopedia full of wise
words and some therapeutic tricks
I didn't know existed. But . .

He shook his head. “ Do you know
why Kelley and I wouldn’t let you
meet Hal?” He wet his lips and
cast about for an example. “Re-
member the pictures of Musso-

A WAV or THINKING

lini’s corpse after the mob got
through with it?”

I shuddered. ‘‘I saw ’em.”

“Well, that’s what he looks
like, only he’s alive, which doesn’t
make it any prettier. Hal doesn’t
know how bad it is, and neither
Kelley nor I would run the risk of
having him see it reflected in
someone else's face. I wouldn’t
send a wooden Indian into that
room.”

I began to pound the table,
barely touching it, hitting it
harder and harder until Milton
caught my wrist. I froze then, un-
happily conscious of the eyes of
everyone on the place looking at
me. Gradually the normal sound
of the restaurant resumed. “Sorry.”

“ It’s all right.”

“There’s got to be some sort of
reason!”

His lips twitched in a small acid
smile. “That's what you get down
to at last, isn’t it? There’s always
been a reason for everything, and
if we don’t know it, we can find it
out. But just one single example
of real unreason is enough to shake
our belief in everything. And then
the fear gets bigger than the case
at hand and extends to a whole
universe of concepts labelled 'un-
proven'. Shows you how little
we believe in anything, basically.”

“That’s a miserable piece of
philosophy!”

“Sure. If you have another ar-
rival point for a case like this, I’ll
buy it with a bonus. Meantime

I’ll just go on worrying at this one
and feeling more scared than I
ought to.”

“Let’s get drunk.”

“A wonderful idea.”

Neither of us ordered. We just
sat there looking at the lozenge
of sugar I’d made on the table-
top. After a while I said, “Hasn’t
Kelley any idea of what’s wrong?”

“You know Kelley. If he had
an idea he’d be working on it. All
he’s doing is sitting by watching
his brother’s body stew and swell
like yeast in a vat.”

“What about Hal?”

“He isn’t lucid much any more.
Not if I can help it.”

“ But maybe he — ”

“Look,” said Milton, “I don’t
want to sound cranky or anything,
but I can’t hold still for a lot of
questions like . . .” He stopped,
took out his display handkerchief,
looked at it, put it away. “I’m
sorry. You don't seem to under-
stand that I didn’t take this case
yesterday afternoon. I’ve been
sweating it out for nearly three
months now. I’ve already thought
of everything you’re going to
think of. Yes, 1 questioned Hal,
back and forth and sideways.
Nothing. N-n-nothing.”

That last word trailed off in
such a peculiar way that I looked
up abruptly. "Tell me,” I de-
manded.

“Tell you what?” Suddenly he
looked at his watch. I covered it
with my hand. “Come on, Milt.”

AMAZING STORIES

“1 don’t know what you’re —
damn it, leave me alone, will you?
If it was anything important,
I'd’ve chased it down long ago.”

“Tell me the unimportant some-
thing.”

“No.”

“Tell me why you won’t tell
me.”

“Damn you, I’ll do that. It’s
because you’re a crackpot. You’re
a nice guy and I like you, but
you’re a crackpot.” He laughed
suddenly, and it hit me like the
flare of a flashbulb. “ I didn’t know
you could look so astonished!” he
said. “ Now- take it easy and listen
to me. A guy comes out of a steak
house and steps on a rusty nail,
and ups and dies, of tetanus. But
your crackpot vegetarian will
swear up and down that the man
would still be alive if he hadn’t
poisoned his system with meat,
and use the death to prove his
point. The perennial Dry will call
the same casualty a victim of
John Barleycorn if he knows the
man had a beer with his steak.
This one death can be ardently
and wholeheartedly be blamed on
the man’s elivorce, his religion, his
political affiliations or on a hered-
itary taint from his great-great-
grandfather who worked for Oli-
ver Cromwell. You’re a nice guy
and I like you,” he said again,
“ and I am not going to sit across
from you and watch you do the
crackpot act.”

“I do not know,” I said slowly
and distinctly, “what the hell you
are talking about. And now you
have. to tell me.”

“ 1 suppose so,” he said sadly.
He drew a deep breath. “You be-
lieve what you write. No,” he said
quickly, “ I’m not asking you, I’m
telling you. You grind out all this
fantasy and horror stuff and you
believe every word of it. More
basically, you’d rather believe in
the outr£ and the so-called ‘un-
knowable’ than in what I’d call
real things. You think I’m talking
through my hat.”

“I do,” I said, “but go ahead.”

“If I called you up tomorrow
and told you with great joy that
they’d isolated a virus for Hal’s
condition and a serum was on the
way, you’d be just as happy about
it as I would be, but way down
deep you’d wonder if that, was
what was really wrong with him,
or if the serum is what really
cured him. If on the other hand I
admitted to you that I’d found
two small punctures on Hal’s
throat and a wisp of fog slipping
out of the room — by God! see,
what 1 mean? You have a gleam
in your eye already!”

I covered my eyes. “Don’t let
me stop you now,” I said coldly.
“Since you are not going to admit
Dracula’s punctures, what are you
going to admit?”

“A year ago Kelley gave his
brother a present. An ugly little
brute of a Haitian doll. Hal kept

A WAY OF THINKING

it around to make faces at for a
while and then gave it to a girl.
He had bad trouble with the girl.
She hates him — really hates him.
As far as anyone knows she still
has the doll. Are you happy now?”

“Happy,” I said disgustedly.
“But Milt — you’re not just ig-
noring this doll thing. Why, that
could easily be the whole basis of
. . . hey, sit down! Where are
you going?”

“I told you I wouldn't sit across
from a damn lobbyist. Enter
hobbies, exit reason.” He recoiled.
"Wait — you sit down now.”

I gathered up a handful of his
well-cut lapels. “We’ll both sit
down,” I said gently, “or I’ll
prove to your heart’s desire that
I’ve reached the end of reason.”

“ Yessir,” he said good-natured-
ly, and sat down. I felt like a damn
fool. The twinkle left his eyes and
he leaned forward. “Perhaps now
you’ll listen instead of riding off
like that. I suppose you know that
in many cases the voodoo doll
does work, and you know why?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t think you’d
admit it.” I got no response from
his stony gaze, and at last realized
that a fantasist’s pose of authority
on such matters is bound to sit
ill with a serious and progressive
physician. A lot less positively, I
said, “It comes down to a matter
of subjective reality, or what some
people call faith. If you believe
firmly that the mutilation of a
doll with which you identify your-

self will result in your own mutila-
tion, well, that’s what will hap-
pen.”

“That, and a lot of things even
a horror-story writer could find
out if he researched anywhere ex-
cept in his projective imagination.
For example, there are Arabs in
North Africa today whom you
dare not insult in any way really
important to them. If they feel
injured, they’ll threaten to die,
and if you call the bluff they’ll sit
down, cover their heads, and damn
well die. There are psychosomatic
phenomena like the stigmata, or
wounds of the cross, which appear
from time to time on the hands,
feet and breasts of exceptionally
devout people. I know you know a
lot of this,” he added abruptly,
apparently reading something in
my expression, “but I’m not go-
ing to get my knee off your chest

until you'll admit that I’m at least
capable of taking a thing like this
into consideration and tracking it
down.”

“ I never saw you before in my
life,” I said, and in an important
way I meant it.

“Good,” he said, with consider-
able relief. ” Now I’ll tell you what
I did. I jumped at this doll epi-
sode almost as wildly as you did.
It came late in the questioning be-
cause apparently it really didn't
matter to Hal.”

“Oh, well, but the subcon-
scious — ”

“Shaddup!” He stuck a sur-
prisingly sharp forefinger into my
collarbone. ” I’m telling you; you’re
not telling me. I won’t disallow
that a deep belief in voodoo might
be hidden in Hal’s subconscious,
but if it is, it’s where sodium
amvtal and word association and
light and profound hypnosis and a
half-dozen other therapies give
not a smidgin of evidence. I’ll take
that as proof that he carries no
such conviction. I guess from the
looks of you I’ll have to remind
you again that I’ve dug into this
thing in more ways for longer and
with more tools than you have —
and I doubt that it means any less
to me than it does to you.”

“You know, I’m just going to
shut up,” I said plaintively.

“High time,” he said, and
grinned. ‘‘N'ow, in every case of
voodoo damage or death, there

has to be that element of devout
belief in the powers of the witch
or wizard, and through it a com-
plete sense of identification with
the doll. In addition, it helps if the
victim knows what sort of damage
the doll is sustaining — crushing,
or pins sticking into it, or what.
And you can take my word for it
that no such news has reached
Hal.”

“What about the doll? Just to
be absolutely sure, shouldn’t we
get it back?”

“1 thought of that. But there’s
no way I know of of getting it
back without making it look valu-
able to the woman. And if she
thinks it’s valuable to Hal, we’ll
never see it.”

“Hm. Who is she, and what’s
her royal gripe?”

“She’s as nasty a piece of fluff
as they come. She got involved
with Hal for a little while — noth-
ing serious, certainly not on his
part. He was ... he’s a big
good-natured kid who thinks the
only evil people around are the
ones who get killed at the end of
the movie. Kelley was at sea at
the time and he blew in to find
this little vampire taking Hal for
everything she could, first by sym-
pathy, then by threats. The old
badger game. Hal was just be-
wildered. Kelley got his word that
nothing had occurred between
them, and then forced Hal to
lower the boom. She called his
bluff and it went to court. They

A WAY OF THINKING

forced a physical examination on
her and she got laughed out of
court. She wasn’t the mother of
anyone’s unborn child, She never
will be. She swore to get even with
him. She’s without brains or edu-
cation or resources, but that does-
n’t stop her from being pathologi-
cal. She sure can hate.”

‘‘Oh. You’ve seen her.”

Milton shuddered. ‘‘I’ve seen
her. I tried to get all Hal’s gifts
back from her. I had to say all
because I didn’t dare itemize. All
I wanted, it might surprise you to
know, was that damned doll. Just
in case, you know . . . although
I’m morally convinced that the
thing has nothing to do with it.
Now do you see what I mean
about a single example of un-
reason?”

‘‘Fraid I do.” 1 felt upset and
sat upon and I wasn’t fond of the
feeling. I’ve read just too many
stories where the scientist just
hasn’t the imagination to solve a
haunt. It had been great, feeling-
superior to a bright guy like Mil-
ton.

We walked out of there and for
the first time I felt the mood of a
night without feeling that an au-
thor was ramming it down my
throat for story purposes. 1 looked
at the clean-swept, star-reaching
cubism of the Radio City area and
its living snakes of neon, and I
suddenly thought of an Evelyn
Smith story the general idea of
which was ‘‘After they found out

the atom bomb was magic, the
rest of the magicians who en-
chanted refrigerators and washing
machines and the telephone sys-
tem came out into the open.” I
felt a breath of wind and won-
dered what it was that had
breathed. I heard the snoring of
the city and for an awesome sec-
ond felt it would roll over, open
its eyes, and . . . speak.

On the corner 1 said to Milton,
“Thanks. You’ve given me a
thumping around. I guess I needed
it.” I looked at him. “ By the Lord
I’d like to find some place where
you've been stupid in this thing.”

“I’d be happy if you could,”
he said seriously.

I whacked him on the shoulder.
“See? You take all the fun out of
it.”

He got a cab and I started to
walk. I walked a whole lot that
night, just anywhere. I thought
about a lot of things. When 1 got
home the phone was ringing, ft
was Kelley.

I’m not going to give you a
blow-by-blow of that talk with
Kelley. It was in that small front
room of his place — an apartment
he’d rented after Hal got sick,
and not the one Hal used to have
— and we talked the night away.
All I’m withholding is Kelley’s
expression of things you already
know: that he was deeply at-
tached to his brother, that he had
no hope left for him, that he

AMAZING STORIES

would find who or what was re-
sponsible and deal with it his way.
1 1 is a strong man’s right to break
down if he must, with whom and
where he chooses, and such an oc-
casion is only an expression of
strength. But when it happens in
a quiet place, with the command
of hope strongly in the air; when a
chest heaves and a throat must be
held wide open to sob silently so
that the dying one shall not know;
these things are not pleasant to
describe in detail. Whatever my
ultimate feelings for Kelley, his
emotions and the expressions of
them are for him to keep.

He did, however, know the
name of the girl and where she
was. He did not hold her responsi-
ble. I thought he might have a sus-
picion, but it turned out to be
only a certainty that this was no
disease, no subjective internal dis-
order. If a great hate and a great
determination could solve the
problem, Kelley would solve it.
If research and logic could solve
it, Milton would do it. If I could
do it, I would.

She was checking hats in a
sleazy club out where Brooklyn
and Queens, in a remote meeting,
agree to be known as Long Island.
The contact was easy to make.
I gave her my spring coat with the
label outward. It’s a good label.
When she turned away with it I
called her back and drunkenly
asked her for the bill in the right-

hand pocket. She found it and
handed it to me. It was a hundred.
“Damn taxis never got change,”
I mumbled and took it before her
astonishment turned to sleight-of-
hand. I got out my wallet, crowded
the crumpled note into it clumsily
enough to display the two other C-
notes there, shoved it into the
front of my jacket so that it
missed the pocket and fell to the
floor, and walked off. I walked
back before she could lift the
hinged counter and skin out after
it. I picked it up and smiled fool-
ishly at her. “Lose more business
cards that way,” I said. Then I
brought her into focus. “Hey, you
know, you’re cute.”

I suppose “cute” is one of the
four-letter words that describe
her. “What's your name?”

“Charity,” she said. “ But don't
get ideas.” She was wearing so
much pancake makeup that I
couldn't tell what her complexion
was. She leaned so far over the
counter that I could see lipstick
stains on her brassiere.

" I don't have a favorite charity
yet,” I said. “You work here alia
time?”

“I go home once in a while,”
she said.

“What time?”

“One o’clock."

“Tell you what,” I confided.
“Le’s both be in front of this
place at a quarter after and see
who stands who up, okay?” With-
out waiting for an answer I stuck

A WAY OF THINKING

the wallet into my back pocket so
that my jacket hung on it. All the
way into the dining room I could
feel her eyes on it like two hot
glistening broiled mushrooms. I
came within an ace of losing it to
the head waiter when he collided
with me, too.

She was there all right, with a
yellowish fur around her neck
and heels you could have driven
into a pine plank. She was up to
the elbows in jangly brass and
chrome, and when we got into a
cab she threw herself on me with
her mouth open. I don't know
where I got the reflexes, but I
threw my head down and cracked
her in the cheekbone with my fore-
head, and when she squeaked in-
dignantly I said I’d dropped the
wallet again and she went about
helping me find it quietly as you
please. We went to a place and
another place and an after-hours
place, all her choice. They served
her sherry in her whiskey-ponies
and doubled all my orders, and
tilted the checks something out-
rageous. Once I tipped a waiter
eight dollars and she palmed the
five. Once she wormed my leather
notebook our of my breast pocket
thinking it was the wallet, which
by this time was safely tucked
away in my knit shorts. She did
get one enamel cuff link with a
rhinestone in it, and my fountain
pen. All in all it was quite a duel.
I was loaded to the eyeballs with
thiamin hydrochloride and caffeine

citrate, but a most respectable
amount of alcohol soaked through
them, and it was all I could do to
play it through. I made it, though,
and blocked her at every turn
until she had no further choice but
to take me home. She was furious
and made only the barest at-
tempts to hide it.

We got each other up the dim
dawnlit stairs, shushing each other
drunkenly, both much soberer
than we acted, each promising
what we expected not to deliver.
She negotiated her lock success-
fully and waved me inside.

I hadn’t expected it to be so
neat. Or so cold. “I didn't leave
that window open,” she said com-
plain ingly. She crossed the room
and closed it. She pulled her fur
around her throat. “This is awful.”

It was a long low room with
three windows. At one end, cov-
ered by a Venetian blind, was a
kitchenette. A door at one side
of it was probably a bathroom.

She went to the Venetian blind
and raised it. ‘‘Have it warmed
up in a jiffy,” she said.

I looked at the kitchenette.
‘‘Hey,” I said as she lit the little
oven, ‘‘Coffee. How's about cof-
fee?”

“Oh, all right,” she said glumly.
“But talk quiet, huh?”

“Sh-h-h-h.” I pushed my lips
around with a forefinger. I circled
the room. Cheap phonograph and
records. Small-screen TV. A big

AMAZING STORIES

double studio-couch. A bookcase
with no books in it, just china
dogs. It occurred to me that her
unsubtle approach was probably
not successful as often as she
might wish.

But where was the thing I was
looking for?

“Hey, I wanna powder my
noses,” I announced.

“In there,” she said. “Can’t
you talk quiet?”

I went into the bathroom. It
was tiny. There was a foreshort-
ened tub with a circular frame
over it from which hung a horribly
cheerful shower curtain, with big
red roses. I closed the door behind
me and carefully opened the medi-
cine chest. Just the usual. I closed
it carefully so it wouldn’t click.
A built-in shelf held towels.

Must be a closet in the main
room, I thought. Hatbox, trunk,
suitcase, maybe. Where would I
put a devil-doll if I were hexing
someone?

I wouldn’t hide it away, I an-
swered myself. I don’t know why,
but I’d sort of have it out in the
open somehow . . .

I opened the shower curtain and
let it close. Round curtain, square
tub.

“ Yup! ”

I pushed the whole round cur-
tain back, and there in the corner,
just at eye level, was a triangular
shelf. Grouped on it were four
figurines, made apparently from
kneaded wax. Three had wisps of

hair fastened by candle-droppings.
The fourth was hairless, but had
slivers of a horny substance
pressed into the ends of the arms.
Fingernail parings.

I stood for a moment thinking.
Then I picked up the hairless doll,
turned to the door. I checked
myself, flushed the toilet, took a
towel, shook it out, dropped it
over the edge of the tub. Then I
reeled out. “Hey honey, look
what I got, ain’t it cute?”

“Shh! ” she said. “Oh for crying
out loud. Put that back, will you?”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s none of your business,
that’s what it is. Come on, put
it back.”

I wagged my finger at her.
“You’re not being nice to me,” I
complained.

She pulled some shreds of pa-
tience together with an obvious
effort. “It’s just some sort of toys
I have around. Here.”

I snatched it away. “All right,
you don't wanna be nice!” I
whipped my coat together and
began to button it clumsily, still
holding the figurine.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and
came to me. “Come on, Dadsy.
Have a nice cup of coffee and let’s
not fight.” She reached for the
doll and I snatched it away again.

“You got to tell me,” I pouted.

“It's pers’nal.”

“ 1 wanna be personal,” I pointed
out.

“Oh all right,” she said. “ I had

A WAY OF THINKING

a roommate one time, she used to
make these -things. She said you
make one, and s' pose I decide I
don’t like you, i get something of
yours, hair or -toenails or some-
thing. Say your name is George.
What is your name? ”

“George,” 1 said.

“All right, I call the doll
George. Then I stick pins in it.
That’s all. Give it to me.”

“Who’s this one?”

“That’s Al.”

“Hal?”

“Al. I got one called Hal. He’s
in there. I hate him the most.”

“Yeah, huh. Well, what hap-
pens to Al and George and all
when you stick pins in ’em?"

“They’re s’posed to get sick.
Even die.”

“ Do they?"

“Nah," she said with immedi-
ate and complete candor. “I told
you, it’s just a game, sort of. If it
worked believe me old Al would
bleed to death. He runs the deli-
catessen.” 1 handed her the doll,
and she looked at it pensively. “I
wish it did work, sometimes. Some-
times I almost believe in it. 1 stick
’em and they just yell."

“Introduce me,” I demanded.

“What?”

“ Introduce me,” 1 said. I pulled
her toward the bathroom. She
made a small irritated “oh-h,”
and came along.

“This is Fritz and this is Bruno
and ; — where’s the other one?”

“What other one?”

“Maybe he fell behind the —
Down back of — ” She knelt on
the edge of the tub and leaned
over to the wall, to peer'behind it.
She regained her feet, her face red
from effort and anger. “What are
you trying to pull? You kidding
around or something?"

I spread my arms. "What do
you mean?”

“Come on,” she said between
her teeth. She felt my coat, my
jacket. “You hid it some place.”

“No I didn’t. There was only
four.” I pointed. “Al and Fritz
and Bruno and Hal. Which one’s
Hal?”

“That’s Freddie. He give me
twenny bucks and took twenny
three out of my purse, the dirty — .
But Hal’s gone. He was the best
one of all. You sure you didn’t
hide him?”

“The window!” she said, and
ran into the other room. I was on
my four bones peering under the
tub when I understood what she
meant. I took a last good look
around and then followed her.
She was standing at the window,
shading her eyes and peering out.
“What do you know? Imagine
somebody would swipe a thing
like that!”

A sick sense of loss was born
in my solar plexus.

“Aw, forget it. I’ll make an-
other one for that Hal. But I’ll
never make another one that
ugly,” she added wistfully. “Come
on, the coffee’s — what’s the mat-

AMAZING STORIES

ter? You sick? You look bad, Hal.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m sick.”

“Of all the things to steal,” she
said from the kitchenette. “Who
do you suppose would do such a
thing?”

Suddenly I knew who would. I
cracked my fist into my palm and
laughed.

“What’s the matter, you
crazy?”

“Yes,” I said. “You got a
phone? ”

“No. Where you going?”

“Out. Goodbye, Charity.”

“Hey, now wait, honey. Just
when I got coffee for you.”

1 snatched the door open. She
caught my sleeve. “You can’t go
away like this. How’s about a
little something for Charity?”

“You’ll get yours when you
make the rounds tomorrow, if you
don’t have a hangover from those
sherry highballs,” I said cheer-
fully. “And don’t forget the five
you swiped from the tip-plate.
Better watch out for that waiter,
by the way. I think he saw you
do it.”

“You’re not drunk!” she gasped.

“You’re not a witch,” I grinned.
I blew her a kiss and ran out.

I shall always remember her
like that, round-eyed, a little more
astonished than she was resentful,
the beloved dollar-signs fading
from her hot brown eyes, the pa-
thetic, useless little twitch of her
hips she summoned, up as a last
plea.

A WAY OF THINKING

Ever try to find a phone booth
at five a.m.? I half-trotted nine
blocks before I found a cab, and 1
was on the Queens side of the
Triboro Bridge before I found a
gas station open.

I dialed. The phone said, “ Hel-
lo? ”

“Kelley!” I roared happily.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You’d’a
saved me sixty bucks worth of
the most dismal fun 1 ever — ”

“This is Milton,” said the tele-
phone. “Hal just died.”

My mouth was still open and I
guess it just stayed that way.
Anyway it was cold inside when 1
closed it. “ I’ll be right over.”

“Better not,” said Milton. His
voice was shaking with incomplete
control. “Unless you really want
to . . . there’s nothing you can
do, and I’m going to be . . .
busy.”

“Where’s Kelley?” I whispered.

“ I don’t know.”

“Well,” 1 said. “Call me.”

I got back into my taxi and
went home. I don't remember the
trip.

Sometimes I think I dreamed
I saw Kelly that morning.

A lot of alcohol and enough
emotion to kill it, mixed with no
sleep for thirty hours, makes for
blackout. I came up out of it re-
luctantly, feeling that this was no
kind of world to be aware of. Not
today.

I lay looking at the bookcase.

It was very quiet. I closed my
eyes, turned over, burrowed into
the pillow, opened my eyes again
and saw Kelley sitting in the easy
chair, poured out in .his relaxed
feline fashion, legs too long, arms
too long, eyes too long and only
partly open.

I didn’t ask him how he got in
because he was already in, and
welcome. I didn’t say anything
because I didn’t want to be the
one to tell him about Hal. And
besides I wasn’t awake yet. I
just lay there.

“Milton told me,” he said.
“ It’s all right.”

1 nodded.

Kelley said. “ I read your story.
I found some more and read them
too. You got a lot of imagination.”

He hung a cigarette on his
lower lip and lit "it. “Milton, he’s
got a lot of knowledge. Now, both
of you think real good up to a
point. Then too much knowledge
presses him off to the no'theast.
And too much imagination squeezes
you off to the no’thwest.”

He smoked a while.

“Me, 1 think straight through
but it takes me a while.”

I palmed my eyeballs. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s okay,” he said quietly.
“ Look, I'm goin’ after what killed
Hal.”

I closed my eyes and saw a
vicious, pretty, empty little face.
I said, “I was most of the night
with Charity.”

“Were you now?”

“Kelley,” I said, “If it's her
you’re after, forget it. She’s a
sleazy little tramp but she’s also
a little kid who never had a
chance. She didn't kill Hal.”

“I know she didn’t. I don’t feel
about her one way or the other.
I know what killed Hal, though,
and I’m goin’ after it the only
way I know for sure.”

“All right then,” I said. I let
my head dig back into the pillow.
“What did kill him?”

“Milton told you about that
doll Hal give her."

“He told me. There’s nothing
in that, Kelley. For a man to be
a voodoo victim, he’s got to be-
lieve that — ”

“Yeh, yeh, yeh. Milt told me.
For hours he told me.”

“Well, all right."

“You got imagination,” Kelley
said sleepily. “Now just imagine
along with me a while. Milt tell
you how some folks, if you point a
gun at ’em and go bang, they drop
dead, even if there was only blanks
in the gun?"

“He didn’t, but I read it some-
where. Same general idea.”

“Now imagine all the shootings
you ever heard of was like that,
with blanks."

“Go ahead.”

“You got a lot of evidence, a
lot of experts, to prove about this
believing business, ever’ time any-
one gets shot."

“Got it.”

AMAZING STORIES

“Now imagine somebody shows
up with live ammunition in his
gun. Do you think those bullets
going to give a damn who believes
what?’’

I didn't say anything.

“For a long time people been
makin’ dolls and stickin’ pins in
’em. Wherever somebody believes
it can happen, they get it. Now
suppose somebody shows up with
the doll all those dolls was copied
from. The real one.”

1 lay still.

“You don’t have to know noth-
in' about it,” said Kelley lazily.
“You don’t have to be anybody
special. You don’t have to under-
stand how it works. Nobody has
to believe nothing. All you do, you
just point it where you want it to
work.”

“Point it how?" 1 whispered.

He shrugged. “Call the doll by
a name. Hate it, maybe.”

“ For God’s sake’s, Kelley, you’re
crazy! Why, there can’t be any-
thing like that!”

“You eat a steak,” Kelley said,
" How your gut know what to take
and what to pass? Do you know? ”

“Some people know.”

“You don’t. But your gut does.
So there’s lots of natural laws that
are goin' to work whether anyone
understands ’em or not. Lots of
sailors take a trick at the wheel
without knowin’ how a steering
engine works. Well, that's me. 1
know where I’m goin’ and 1 know
I’ll get there. What do I care how

does it work, or who believes
what?”

“Fine, so what are you going
to do?”

“Get what got Hal.” His tone
was just as lazy but his voice was
very deep, and I knew when not
to ask any more questions. Instead
I said, with a certain amount of
annoyance, “Why tell me?”

“Want you to do something for
me.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell no one what 1 just
said for a while. And keep some-
thing for me.”

“What? And for how long?”

“You’ll know.”

I’d have risen up and roared
at him if he had not chosen just
that second to get up and drift
out of the bedroom. “What gets
me,” he said quietly from the
other room, “is I could have
figured this out six months ago.”

I fell asleep straining to hear
him go out. He moves quieter
than any big man I ever saw.

It was afternoon when I awoke.
The doll was sitting on the mantel-
piece glaring at me. Ugliest thing
ever happened.

I saw Kelley at Hal’s funeral.
He and Milt and I had a somber
drink afterward. We didn’t talk
about dolls. Far as I know Kelley
shipped out right afterward. You
assume that seamen do, when they
drop out of sight. Milton was as
busy as a doctor, which is very.

A WAY OF THINKING

I left the doll where it was for a
week or two, wondering when
Kelley was going to get around to
his project. He’d probably call for
it when he. was ready. Meanwhile
I respected his request and told
no one about it. One day when
some people were coining over I
shoved it in the top shelf of the
closet, and somehow it just got
left there.

About a month afterward. I be-
gan to notice the smell. I couldn’t
identify it right away; it was too
faint; but whatever it was, I didn’t
like it. I traced it to the closet,
and then to the .doll. I took it
down and sniffed it. My breath
exploded out. It was that same
smell a lot of people wish they
could forget — what Milton called
necrotic flesh. I came within an
inch of pitching the filthy thing
down the incinerator, but a prom-
ise is a promise. I put it down on
the table, where it slumped re-
pulsively. One of the legs was
broken above the knee. I mean it
seemed to have two knee joints.
And it was somehow puffy, sick-
looking.

I had an old bell-jar somewhere
that once had a clock in it. I found
it .arid a piece of inlaid linoleum,
and put the doll under the jar so
I could at least live with it.

I worked, and saw people —
dinner with Milton, once — and
the days went by the way they
do, and then one night it occurred
to me to look at the doll again.

It was in pretty sorry shape. I 'd
tried to keep it fairly cool, but it
seemed to be melting and running
all over. For a moment I worried
about what Kelley might say. and
then I heartily damned Kelley and
put the whole mess down in the
cellar.

And I guess it was altogether
two months after Hal’s death that
I wondered why I’d assumed Kel-
ley would have to call for the
little horror before he did what
he had to do. He said he was going
to get what got Hal, and he inti-
mated that the doll was that
something.

Well, that doll was being got,
but good. I brought it up and put
it under the light. It was still a
figurine, but it was one unholy
mess. “Attaboy, Kelley," 1 gloated.
“Go get’em, kid.”

Milton called me up and asked
me to meet him at Rudy’s. He
sounded pretty bad. We had the
shortest drink yet.

He was sitting in the back
booth chew’ing on the insides of
his cheeks. His lips were gray and
he slopped his drink.

“What in time happened to
you?” I gasped.

He gave me a ghastly smile.
“I’m famous,” he said. I heard
his glass chatter against his teeth.
He said, “ I called in so many con-
sultants on Hal Kelley that I’m
supposed to be an expert on that
— on that . . . condition.” He

AMAZING STORIES

forced his glass back to the table
with both hands and held it down.
He tried to smile and I wished he
wouldn’t. He stopped trying and
almost whimpered, “ I can’t nurse
one of ’em like that again.”

“You going to tell me what
happened?” I asked harshly. That
works sometimes.

‘‘Oh, oh yes. Well they brought
in a . . . another one. At Gen-
eral. They called me in. Just like
Hal. I mean exactly like Hal. Only
I won’t have to nurse this one, no
I won’t, 1 won’t have to. She died
six hours after she arrived.”

“ She?"

‘‘She just said the same thing
over and over every time anyone
talked to her. They’d say, ‘What
happened?’ or ‘Who did this to
you?’ or ‘What’s your name?'
and she’d say ‘He called me
Dolly’. That’s all she’d say, just
‘He called me Dolly.’”

I got up. “ ’Bye, Milt.”

He looked stricken. “Don’t go,
will you, you just got — ”

“I got to go,” I said. I didn’t
look back. 1 had to get out and

ask myself some questions. Think.

Who’s guilty of murder, 1 asked
myself, the one who pulls the
trigger, or the gun?

I thought of a poor damn pretty
empty little face with greedy hot
brown eyes, and what Kelley said,
“I don't care about her.”

I thought, when she was twisting
and breaking and sticking, how
did it look to the doll? Bet she
never even wondered about that.

I thought, action: A girl throws
a fan at a man. Reaction: The
man throws the girl at the fan.
Action: A wheel sticks on a shaft.
Reaction: Knock the shaft out of
the wheel. Situation: We can’t get
inside. Resolution: Take the out-
side off it.

How do you kill a doll?

Who’s guilty, the one who pulls
the trigger, or the gun?

“He called me Dolly."

When 1 got home the phone was
ringing.

“Hi,” said Kelley.

I said, “It’s all gone. The doll’s
all gone.”

“All right,” said Kelley.

LITTLE GIRL LOST

By Richard Matheson

Here, in the tense prose of Dick Matheson, is a new kind
of trouble. You are an ordinary young husband living in
a nice bungalow in an average town. You have a medium-
priced car, an undistinguished dog, and a very special
little daughter. The scene is set. Now — you wake lip
in the middle of an ordinary night and hear your daugh-
ter crying. You go to her room. You can still hear her. But
she isn't there! Yet, she cries to you for aid. A perilous
situation. We can only hope you get her back.

T ina’s crying woke me up in a
second. It was pitch black,
middle of the night. 1 heard Ruth
stir beside me in bed. In the front
room Tina caught her breath,
then started in again, louder.
"Oh, gawd,” I muttered grog-

gily-

Ruth grunted and started to
push back the covers.

“I'll get it," I said wearily and
she slumped back on the pillow.
We take turns when Tina has her
nights; has a cold or a stomach-
ache or just takes a Hop out of
bed.

I lifted up my legs and dropped
them over the edge of the blan-
kets. Then I squirmed myself
down to the foot of the bed and

slung my legs over the edge. I
winced as my feet touched the icy
floor boards. The apartment was
arctic, it usually is these winter
nights, even in California.

I padded across the cold floor
threading my way between the
chest, the bureau, the bookcase in
the hall and then the edge of the
tv set as I moved into the living-
room. Tina sleeps there because
we could only get a one bedroom
apartment. She sleeps on a couch
that breaks down into a bed. And,
at that moment, her crying was
getting louder and she started
calling for her mommy.

“All right. Tina. Daddy’ll fix
it all up,” 1 told her.

She kept crying. Outside, on
the balcony, I heard our collie
Mack jump down from his bed on
the camp chair.

I bent ove'r the couch in the
darkness. I could feel that the
covers were lying flat. I backed
away, squinting at the floor but
I didn’t see any Tina moving
around.

“Oh, my God,” 1 chuckled to
myself, in spite of irritation, “the
poor kid’s under the couch.”

I got down on my knees and
looked, still chuckling at the
thought of little Tina falling out
of bed and crawling under the
couch.

“Tina, where are you?” I said,
trying not to laugh.

Her crying got louder but I
couldn’t see her under the couch.

It was too dark to see clearly.

“Hey, where are you, kiddo?”
I asked. “Come to papa.”

Like a man looking for a collar
button under the bureau I felt
under the couch for my daughter,
who was still crying and begging
for mommy, mommy.

Came the first twist of surprise.
I couldn't reach her no matter
how hard I stretched.

“Come on, Tina,” I said,
amused no longer, “stop playing
games with your old man.”

She cried louder. My out-
stretched hand jumped back as it
touched the cold wall.

“Daddy!” Tina cried.

“Oh for . . . !”

1 stumbled up and jolted ir-
ritably across the rug. 1 turned on
the lamp beside the record player
and turned to get her, and was
stopped dead in my tracks, held
there, a half-asleep mute, gaping
at the couch, ice water plaiting
down my back.

Then, in a leap, I was on my
knees' by the couch and my eyes
were searching frantically, my
throat getting tighter and tighter.
I heard her crying under the
couch, but I couldn't see her.

My stomach muscles jerked in
as the truth of it struck me. I ran
my hands around wildly under
the bed but they didn't touch a
thing. T heard her crying and by
God, she wasn’t there!

“Ruth!” I yelled, “Come here.”

AMAZING STORIES

I heard Ruth catch her breath
in the bedroom and then there
was a rustle of liedclothes and the
sound of her feet rushing across
the bedroom floor. Out of the side
of my eyes i saw the light blue
movement of her nightgown.

“What is it?" she gasped.

I backed to my feet, hardly
able to breathe much less speak.
1 started to say something but
the words choked up in my throat.
My mouth hung open. AIM could
do was point a shaking finger at
the couch.

“Where is she!" Ruth cried.

“I don’t know l” I finally man-
aged. “She . . ."

“ What ! ”

Ruth dropped to her knees be-
side the couch and looked under.

“Tina!” she called.

" Mommy."

Ruth recoiled from the couch,
color draining from her face. The
eyes she turned to me were horri-
fied. I suddenly heard the sound
of Mack scratching wildly at the
door.

“Where is she?” Ruth asked
again, her voice hollow.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling
numb. I turned on the light
and . . .

“But she’s crying," Ruth said
as if she felt the same distrust of
sight that I did. “I . . . Chris,
listen."

The sound of our daughter
crying and sobbing in fright;

“Tina!” 1 called loudly, point-

lessly, “where are you, angel?” ,,

She just cried. “Mommy!”
she said, “ Mommy, pick me up!”

“No, no, this is crazy,” Ruth
said, her voice- tautly held as she
rose to her feet, “she’s in the
kitchen.”

“But . .

I stood there dumbly as Ruth
turned on the kitchen light and
went in. The sound of her agon-
ized voice made me shudder.

“Chris! She's not in here."

She came running in, her eyes
stark with fear. She bit her teeth
into her lip.

“But, where is . . . ?” she
started to say, then stopped.

Because we both heard Tina
crying and the sound of it was
coming from under the couch.

But there wasn't anything un-
der the couch.

Still Ruth couldn’t accept the
crazy truth. She jerked open the
hall closet and looked in it. She
looked behind the tv set, even
behind the record player, a space
of maybe two inches.

“Honey, help me,” she begged,
“we can’t just leave her this
way.”

I didn’t moVe.

“Honey, she’s under the
couch,” I said.

“But she’s not!”

Once more, like the crazy, im-
possible dream it was, me on my
knees on the cold floor, feeling
under the couch. 1 got under the
couch, I touched every inch of

LITTLE GIRL LOST

floor space there. But I couldn’t
touch her, even though I heard
her crying — right in my ear.

I got up, shivering from the
cold and something else. Ruth
stood in the middle of the living-
room rug staring at me. Her voice
was weak, almost inaudible.

“Chris,” she said, “Chris,
what is it?”

I shook my head. “Honey, I
don’t know," I said, “1 don’t
know what it is."

Outside, Mack began to whine
as he scratched. Ruth glanced at
the balcony door, her face a white
twist of fear. She was shivering
now in her silk gown as she looked
back at the couch. I stood there
absolutely helpless, my mind rac-
ing a dozen different ways, none
of them toward a solution, not
even toward concrete thought.

“What are we going to do? ” she
asked, on the verge of a scream I
knew was coming.

“Baby, I . . .”

I stopped short and suddenly
we were both moving for the
couch.

Tina’s crying was fainter.

“Oh, no,” Ruth whimpered,
“No. Tina."

“Mommy," said Tina, further
away. I could feel the chills lacing
over my flesh.

“Tina, come back here!” I
heard myself shouting, the father
yelling at his disobedient child,
who can’t be seen.

“TINA!" Ruth screamed.

Then the apartment was dead
silent and Ruth and 1 were kneel-
ing by the couch looking at the
emptiness underneath. Listening.

To the sound of our child,
peacefully snoring.

“Bill, can you come right
over?" I said frantically.

“What?” Bill’s voice was thick
and fuzzy.

“Bill, this is Chris. Tina has
disappeared !’’

He woke up.

“She’s been kidnaped?” he
asked.

“No," I said, “she’s here but
. . . she’s not here.”

He made a confused sound. 1
grabbed in a breath.

“Bill, for God’s sake get over
here!”

A pause.

“I’ll be right over," he said. I
knew from the way he said it he
didn't know why he was coming.

I dropped the receiver and
went over to where Ruth was sit-
ting on the eouch shivering and
clasping her hands tightly in her
lap.

“Hon, get your robe," I said.
“You’ll catch cold."

“Chris, 1 . . ." Tears running
down her cheeks. “Chris, where is
she? ”

“Honey.”

It was all I could say, hope-
lessly, weakly. I went into the
bedroom and got her robe. On the
way back 1 stooped over and

AMAZING STORIES

twisted hard on the wall heater.

“There,” I said, putting the
robe over her back, “put it on.”

She put her arms through the
sleeves of the robe, her eyes plead-
ing with me to do something.
Knowing very well I couldn’t do
it, she was asking me to bring her
baby back.

I got on my knees again, just
to be doing something. I knew it
wouldn’t help any. 1 remained
there a long time just staring at
the floor under the couch. Com-
pletely in the dark.

“Chris, she’s s-sleeping on the
floor,” Ruth said, her words fal-
tering from colorless lips. “Won’t
. . . she catch cold?”

“I . . .”

That was all I could say. What
could I tell her? No, she's not on
the floor? How did I know? 1
could hear Tina breathing and
snoring gently on the floor but
she wasn’t there to touch. She
was gone but she wasn’t gone. My
brain twisted back and forth on
itself trying to figure out that one.
Try adjusting to something like
that sometime. It’s a fast way to
breakdown.

“Honey, she’s . . . she’s not
here,” I said, “I mean . . . not
on the floor.”

“But . . .”

“ I know, I know . . ."I raised
my hands and shrugged in defeat.
“ I don’t think she’s cold, honey,”
I said as gently and persuasively
as I could.

She started to say something
too but then she stopped. There
was nothing to say. It defied
words.

We sat in the quiet room wait-
ing for Bill to come. I’d called
him because he’s an engineering
man, CalTech, top man with
Lockheed over in the valley. I
don’t know why I thought that
would help but I called him. I’d
have called anyone just to have
another mind to help. Parents are
useless beings when they’re afraid
for their children.

Once, before Bill came, Ruth
slipped to her knees by the couch
and started slapping her hands
over the floor.

“Tina, wake up!” she cried in
newborn terror, “wake up!”

“Honey, what good is that go-
ing to do?” I asked.

She looked up at me blankly
and knew. It wasn’t going to do
any good.

I heard Bill on the steps
and reached the door before he
did. He came in quietly, looking
around and giving Ruth a brief
smile. I took his coat. He was still
in pajamas.

“What is it, kid?” he asked
hurriedly.

I told him as briefly and as
clearly as 1 could. He got down
on his knees and checked for him-
self. He felt around underneath
the couch and I saw his brow knot
into lines when he heard Tina’s

LITTLE GIRL LOST

calm and peaceful breathing-.

He straightened up.

“Well?” I asked.

He shook his head. “My God,"
he muttered.

We both stared at him. Outside
Mack was still scratching and
whining at the door.

“Where is she?” Ruth asked
again, “Bill, I’m about to lose
my mind.”

“Take it easy,” he said. I
moved beside her and put my arm
around her. She was trembling.

“You can hear her breathing,”
Bill said. “ It’s normal breathing.
She must be all right.”

“But where is she?” I asked,
“you can’t see her, you can’t even
touch her.”

“I don’t know,” Bill said and
was on his knees by the bed again.

“Chris, you’d better let Mack
in,” Ruth said, worried about that
for a moment, “he’ll wake all the
neighbors.”

“All right, I will,” I said and
kept watching Bill.

“Should we call the police?”
I asked. “Do you . . . ?”

“No, no, that wouldn’t do any
good,” Bill said, “this isn’t . . .”
He shook his head as if he were
shaking away everything he’d
ever accepted. “It’s not a police
job,” he said.

“Chris, he’ll wake up all
the ...”

I turned for the door to let
Mack in.

“ Wait a minute" Bill said and

I was turned back, my heart
pounding again.

Bill was half under the couch,
listening hard.

“Bill.whatis . . . ?” I started.
“ Shhh! "

We were both quiet. Bill stayed
there a moment longer. Then he
straightened up and his face was
blank.

“ I can’t hear her,” he said.

“Oh, no!"

Ruth fell forward before the
couch.

“Tina! Oh God, where is she!”

Bill was up on his feet, mov-
ing quickly around the room. I
watched him, then looked back
at Ruth slumped over the couch,
sick with fear.

“Listen,” Bill said, “do you
hear anything? ”

Ruth looked up. “ Hear . . .
anything?”

“Move around, move around,”
Bill said. “See what you hear.”

Like robots Ruth and I moved
around the living room having no
idea what we were doing. Every-
thing was quiet except for the
incessant whining and scratching
of Mack, i gritted my teeth and
muttered a terse — “ Shut up!"
— as I passed the balcony door.
For a second the vague idea
crossed my mind that Mack knew
about Tina. He’d always wor-
shiped her.

Then there was Bill standing
in the corner where the closet was,
stretching up on his toes and lis-

AMAZING STORIES

toning. He noticed us watching
him and gestured quickly for us
to come over. We moved hurriedly
across the rug and stood beside
him.

“Listen," he whispered. We
did.

At first there was nothing. Then
Ruth gasped and none of us were
letting out the noise of breath.

Up in the corner, where the
ceiling met the walls, we could
hear the sound of Tina sleeping.

Ruth stared up there, her face
white, totally lost.

“Bill, what the ..." I gave
up.

Bill just shook his head slowly.
Then suddenly he held up his
hand and we all froze, jolted
again.

The sound was gone.

Ruth started to sob helplessly.
“ Tina."

She started out of the corner.

“We have to find her," she said
despairingly. "Please."

We ran around the room in un-
organized circles, trying to hear
Tina. Ruth’s tear-streaked face
was twisted into a mask of fright.

I was the one who found her
this time.

Under the television set.

We all knelt there and listened.
As we did we heard her murmur a
little to herself and the sound of
her stirring in sleep.

“Want my dolly," she mut-
tered.

“ Tina!"

I held Ruth’s shaking body in
my arms and tried to stop her sob-
bing. Without success. I couldn't
keep my own throat from tight-
ening, my heart from pounding
slow and hard in my chest. My
hands shook on her back, slick
with sweat.

“For God’s sake, what is it?"
Ruth said but she wasn’t asking
us.

Bill helped me take her to a
chair by the record player. Then
he stood restlessly on the rug,
gnawing furiously on one knuckle,
the way I’d seen him do so often
when he was engrossed in a prob-
lem.

He looked up, started to say
something then gave it up and
turned for the door.

“I'll let the pooch in," he said.
“He’s making a hell of a racket.”

“ Don’t you have any idea what
might have happened to her?” I
asked.

"Bill . . . ? Ruth begged.

Bill said, “I think she’s in an-
other dimension," and he opened
the door.

What happened next came so
fast we couldn’t do a thing to stop
it.

Mack came bounding in with a
yelp and headed straight for the
couch.

“He knoivs!" Bill yelled and
dived for the dog.

Then happened the crazy part.

LITTLE GIRL LOST

One second Mack was sliding
under the couch in a flurry of
ears, paws and tail. Then he was
gone — just like that. Blotted up.
The three of us gaped.

Then I heard Bill say, “Yes.
Yes.”

“Yes, what?” I didn’t know
where I was by then.

“The kid’s in another dimen-
sion."

“What are you talking about?”
I said in worried, near-angry
tones. You don’t hear talk like
that everyday.

“Sit down," he said.

“Sit down? Isn’t there any-
thing we can do?”

Bill looked hurriedly at Ruth.
She seemed to know what he was
going to say.

“I don’t know if there is," was
what he said.

I slumped back on the couch.

“Bill,” I said. Just speaking his
name.

He gestured helplessly.

“Kid," he said, “this has
caught me as wide open as you.
I don’t even know if I’m right or
not but I can’t think of anything
else. 1 think that in some way,
she’s gotten herself into another
dimension, probably the fourth.
Mack, sensing it, followed her
there. But how did they get
there? — 1 don’t know. I was
under that couch, so were you.
Did you see anything?”

I looked at him and he knew the
answer.

“Another . . . dimension ?”
Ruth said in a tight voice. The
voice of a mother who has just
been told her child is lost forever.

Bill started pacing, punching
his right fist into his palm.

“Damn, damn,” he muttered.
“How do things like this hap-
pen?"

Then while we sat there
numbly, half listening to him, half
for the sound of our child, he
spoke. Not to us really. To him-
self, to try and place the problem
in the proper perspective.

“One dimensional space a line,”
he threw out the words quickly.
“Two dimensional space an in-
finite number of lines — an in-
finite number of one dimensional
spaces. Three dimensional space
an infinite number of planes —
an infinite number of two dimen-
sional spaces. Now the basic fac-
tor .. . the basic factor ..."

He slammed his palm and
looked up at the ceiling. Then he
started again, more slowly now.

“ Every point in each dimension
a section of a line in the next
higher dimension. All points in
lin e-sections of the perpendicular
lines that make the line a plane.
All points in plane are sections
of perpendicular lines that make
the plane a solid.

“That means that in the third
dimension ...”

“Bill, for God’s sake!" Ruth
burst out. “Can’t we do some-

AMAZING STORIIiS

thing? My baby is in ... in
there."

Bill lost his train of thought.
He shook his head.

“ Ruth, I don’t . . .”

I got up then and was down on
the floor again, climbing under
the couch. I had to find it! I felt,
I searched, I listened until the
silence rang. Nothing.

Then I jerked up suddenly and
hit my head as Mack barked
loudly in my ear.

Bill rushed over and slid in
beside me, his breath labored and
quick.

“God’s sake,” he muttered, al-
most furiously. “Of all the damn
places in the world ...”

“If the . . . the entrance is
here,” I muttered, “why did we
hear her voice and breathing all
over the room?”

“Well, if she moved beyond the
effect of the third dimension and
was entirely in the fourth — then
her movement, for us would seem
to spread over all space. Actually
she’d be in one spot in the fourth
dimension but to us . . .”

He stopped.

Mack was whining. But more
importantly Tina started in again.
Right by our ears.

“He brought her back!” Bill
said excitedly. “Man, what a
mutt!”

He started twisting around,
looking, touching, slapping at
empty air.

“We’ve got to find it!” he said.

“We’ve got to reach in and pull
them out. God knows how long
this dimension pocket will last.”

“What?” I heard Ruth gasp,
then suddenly cry, “Tina, where
are you? This is mommy.”

I was about to say something
about it being no use but then
Tina answered.

“Mommy, mommy! Where are
you, mommy?”

Then the sound of Mack growl-
ing and Tina crying angrily.

“She's trying to run around
and find Ruth,” Bill said. “But
Mack won’t let her. 1 don’t know
how but he seems to know where
the joining place is.”

“Where are they for God's
sake!” I said in a nervous fury.

And backed right into the damn
thing.

To my dying day I’ll never
really be able to describe what it
was like. But here goes.

It was black, yes — to me. And
yet there seemed to be a million
lights. But as soon as I looked at
one it disappeared and was gone.
I saw them out of the sides of my
eyes.

“Tina,” I said, “where are
you? Answer me! Please!”

And heard my voice echoing a
million times, the words echoing
endlessly, never ceasing but mov-
ing off as if they were alive and
traveling. And when I moved my
hand the motion made a whistling
sound that echoed and re-echoed

LITTLE GIRL I.OST

and moved away like a swarm of
insects flowing into the night.

“Tina!"

The sound of the echoing hurt
my ears.

“Chris, can you * hear her?"
J heard a voice. But was it a
voice — or more like a thought?

Then something wet touched
mv hand and I jumped.

Mack.

I reached around furiously for
them, every motion making whis-
tling echoes in vibrating blackness
until I felt as if 1 were surrounded
by a multitude of birds flocking
and beating insane wings around
my head. The pressure pounded
and heaved in my brain.

Then I felt Tina. I say I felt
her but I think if she wasn't my
daughter and if I didn’t know

somehow it was her, I would have
thought I'd touched something
else. Not a shape in the sense of
third dimension shape. Let it
go at that, 1 don’t want to go
into it.

“Tina,’’ I whispered. “Tina,
baby.’’

“Daddy, I’m scared of dark,’’
she said in a thin voice and Mack
whined.

Then I was scared of dark too,
because a thought seared my
mind.

How did I get us all out?

Then the other thought came
— Chris, have you got them?

“I’ve got them!” I called.

And Bill grabbed my legs
(which, I later learned, were still
sticking out in the third dimen-
sion) and jerked me back to re-

ality with an armful of daughter
and dog and memories of some-
thing I’d prefer having no memo-
ries about.

We all came piling out under
the couch and J hit my head, on
it and almost knocked myself
out. Then I was being alternately
hugged by Ruth, kissed by the
dog and helped to my feet by
Bill. Mack was leaping on all of
us, yelping and drooling.

When I was in talking shape
again I noticed that Bill had
blocked off the bottom of the
couch with two card tables.

“Just to be safe,” he said.

I nodded weakly. Ruth came
in from the bedroom.

“Where’s Tina?” I asked auto-
matically, uneasy left-overs of
memory still cooking in my brain.

“She’s in our bed,” she said.
“I don’t think we’ll mind for one
night.”

I shook my head.

“1 don’t think so,” I said.

Then 1 turned to Bill.

“Look,” I said. “What the
hell happened?”

“Well,” he said, with a wry
grin, “I told you. The third di-
mension is just a step below the
fourth. In particular, every point
in our space is a section of a per-
pendicular line in the fourth
dimension.”

“So?” I said.

“So, although the lines form-
ing the fourth dimension would

be perpendicular to every point
in the third dimension, they
wouldn’t be parallel — to us. But
if enough of them in one area hap-
pened to be parallel in both di-
mensions — it might form a con-
necting corridor.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“That’s the crazy part,” he
said. “Of all the places in the
world — under the couch — there’s
an area of points that are sections
of parallel lines — parallel in both
dimensions. They make a corri-
dor into the next space.”

“Or a hole,” 1 said.

Bill looked disgusted.

“Hell of a lot of good my rea-
soning did,” he said. “It took a
dog to get her out.”

I groaned softly.

“You can have it,” I said.

“Who wants it?” he answered.

“What about the sound?”

“You're asking me?” he said.

That’s about it. Oh, naturally,
Bill told his friends at CalTech,
and the apartment was overrun
with research physicists for a
month. But they didn’t find any-
thing. They said the thing was
gone. Some said worse things.

But, just the same, when we
got back from my mother’s house
whertfwe stayed during the scien-
tific seige ? — we moved the couch
across the room and stuck the
television where the couch was.

So some night we may look up
and hear Arthur Godfrey chuck-
ling from another dimension.

LITTLE GIRL LOST

THE

BY ARTHUR FELDMAN

We gave this story to a very competent , and very pretty gal
artist. We said, 11 Read this carefully, dream on it, and come
up with an illustration." A week later, she returned with
the finished drawing. “ The hero," she said. We did a double
take. “ Hey ! That's not the hero." She looked us straight in
the eye. “ Can you prove it?" She had us. We couldn't, and
she left hurriedly to go home and cook dinner for her family.
And what were they having? Frog legs — what else ?

T hey were in the garden. “Now,
Zoe,” said Zenia Hawkins to
her nine-year-old daughter, “quit
fluttering around, and papa will
tell sou a story.”

Zoe settled down in the ham-
mock. “A true story, papa?”

“It all happened exactly like
I’m going to tell you,” said Drake
Hawkins, pinching Zoe’s rosy
check. “Now: two thousand and
eleven years ago in 1985, figuring
by the earthly calendar of that
time, a tribe of beings from the
Dog-star Sirius invadetl the
earth.”

“And what did these beings
look like, father?”

“Like humans in many, many
respects. They each had two arms,
two legs and all the other organs

that humans are endowed with.”

“Wasn’t there any difference
at all between the Star beings and
the humans, papa?”

“There was. The newcomers,
each and all, had a pair of wings
covered with green feathers grow-
ing from their shoulders, and long,
purple tails.”

“How many of these beings
were there, father?”

“Exactly three million and
forty-one male adults and three
female adults. These creatures
first appeared on Earth on the
island of Sardinia. In five weeks'
time they were the masters of the
entire globe.”

“Didn’t the Earth-lings fight
back, papa?”

“The humans warred against

Illustrator: A. Lake

the invaders, using bullets, ordi-
nary bombs, super-atom bombs
and gases.”

"What were those things like,
father?”

"Oh, they’ve passed out of
existence long ago. ‘Ammunition’
they were called. The humans
fought each other with such
things.”

“And not with ideas, like we
do now, father?”

"No, with guns, just like I told
you. But the invaders were im-
mune to the ammunition.”

"What does ‘immune’ mean?”

"Proof against harm. Then the
humans tried germs and bacteria
against the star-beings.”

"What were those things?”

"Tiny, tiny bugs that the
humans tried to inject into the
bodies of the invaders to make
them sicken and die. But the
bugs had no effect at all on the
star-beings.”

"Go on, papa. These beings
over-ran all Earth. Go on from
there.”

"You must know, these new-
comers were vastly more intelli-
gent than the Earth-lings. In
fact, the invaders were the great-
est mathematicians in the System.”

"What’s the System? And what
does mathematician mean?”

"The Milky Way. A mathe-
matician is one who is good
at figuring, weighing, measuring,
clever with numbers.”

"Then, father, the invaders

killed off all the Earth-lings?”

"Not all. They killed many,
but many others were enslaved.
Just as the humans had used
horses and cattle, the newcomers
so used the h unmans. They made
workers out of some, others they
slaughtered for food.”

"Papa, what sort of language
did these Star-beings talk?”

“A very simple language, but
the humans were never able to
master it. So, the invaders, being
so much smarter, mastered all the
languages of the globe.”

“What did the Earth-lings call
the invaders, father?”

" ‘An-vils’. Half angels, half
devils.”

"Then papa, everything was
peaceful on Earth after the An-
vils enslaved the humans?”

"For a little while. Then, some
of the most daring of the humans,
led by a man named Knowall,
escaped into the interior of Green-
land. This Knowall was a psy-
chiatrist, the foremost on Earth.”

“What’s a psychiatrist?”

"A dealer in ideas.”

"Then, he was very rich?”

"He’d been the richest human
on Earth. After some profound
thought, Knowall figured a way
to rid the earth of the An-vils.”

"How, papa?”

"He perfected a method, called
the Knowall-Hughes, Tlinski tech-
nique, of imbuing these An-vils
with human emotions.”

AMAZING STORIES

“What does ‘imbuing’ mean?”

“He filled them full of and
made them aware of.”

Zenia interrupted, “Aren’t you
talking a bit above the child’s
understanding, Drake?”

“No, Mama,” said Zoe. “I
understand what papa explained.
Now, don’t interrupt.”

“So, Knowall,’’ continued
Drake,” filled the An-vils with
human feelings such as Love,
Hate, Ambition, Jealousy, Malice,
Envy, Despair, Hope, Fear,
Shame and so on. Very soon the
An-vils were acting like humans,
and in ten days, terrible civil wars
wiped out the An-vils population
by two- thirds”’

“Then papa, the An-vils finally
killed off each other?”

“Almost, until among them a
being named Zalibar, full of saint-
liness and persuasion, preached
the brotherhood of all An-vils.
The invaders, quickly converted,
quit their quarrels, and the Earth-
lings were even more enslaved.”

“Oh, papa, weren’t Knowall
and his followers in Greenland
awfully sad the way things had
turned out? ”

“For a while. Then Knowall
came up with the final pay-off.”

“ Is that slang, papa? Pay-off? ”

“Yes. The coup-de-grace. The
ace in the hole that he’d saved, if
all else failed.”

“1 understand, papa. The idea
that would out- trump any thing the
other side had to offer. What was

it, father? What did they have?”

“Knowall imbued the An-vils
with nostalgia.”

“What is nostalgia?”

“Home sickness.”

“Oh, papa, wasn’t Knowall
smart? That meant, the An-vils
were all filled with the desire to
fly back to the star from where
they had started.”

“Exactly. So, one day, all the
An-vils, an immense army, flap-
ping their great green wings,
assembled in the Black Hills of
North America, and, at a given
signal, they all rose up from Earth
and all the humans chanted,
‘Glory, glory, the day of our
deliverance!’ ”

“So then, father, all the An-
vils flew away from Earth?”

“Not all. There were two child
An-vils, one male and one female,
aged two years, who had been
born on Earth, and they started
off with all the other An-vils and
flew up into the sky. But when
they reached the upper limits of
the strato-sphere, they hesitated,
turned tail and fluttered back to
Earth where they had been born.
Their names were Zizzo and
Zizza.”

“And what happened to Zizzo
and Zizza, papa?”

“Well, like all the An-vils, they
were great mathematicians. So,
they multiplied.”

“Oh, papa,” laughed Zoe, flap-
ping her wings excitedly, “that
was a very nice story!”

THE MATHEMATICIANS

By RICHARD WILSON

KJAL STORY EITHER TREMENDOUS FACT OR
COLOSSAL HOAX STOP KJAL EITHER SOLID MAN
OR MISTY SPOOK STOP NATION AND WORLD IN
FOR EITHER SOUL SHAKING EXPERIENCE OR
BELLY SHAKING LAUGH STOP ALL RELEASES SC
FAR READ QUOTE CONFIDENTIAL UNQUOTE STOP
WHITE HOUSE WONT TALK STOP STATE DEPART-
MENT WONT TALK STOP WAR DEPARTMENT WONT
TALK STOP ON MY WAY TO DEPT OF FISHERIES
STOP HOLD PRESSES STOP MORE TO FOLLOW STOP

O nly a few reporters were in
the White House press room
when the girl came in with the
daily calling list. It was before
nine o’clock on a frosty March
morning. The girl thumbtacked
the list to the cork-faced bulletin
board, frowned at it, shrugged and
then went back through the foyer
to her desk in the Press Secre-
tary's office.

The United Press man lifted
himself, yawning, off the desktop
where he had been sitting watch-
ing a news program on the tele-
vision set at the far end of the
room. He took a pencil and a fold

prepared to jot down the more in-
teresting names, if any, from the
typewritten list of those who
would be calling on the President
that day.

His yawn evaporated as he read
the list.

It said:

CALLING LIST

10:15

Senator Herbert Lehiru

New York

10:30

Mr. Walter Reuther,

C.I.O.

11:00

Secretary of State

Noon

Budget Director

12:30

Lunch

Years of ingrained skepticism
battled with the urge to spin into
UP’s private telephone booth and
cry “Flash! ” along the direct line
to his office.

The skepticism won. He took
down the list and studied that
line.

. . . 1 :30 Mr. Kjal, Mars . . .

The typist had been known to
make some real boners in her day.
Maybe she had meant to type
Hjalmar somebody, as in Hjalmar
Schacht, that one-time financial
wizard of Hitler Germany. Or
maybe it was Mars, Pennsylvania.
There was a Mars in Pennsyl-
vania, wasn’t there? Or it could
be a man from the Mars candy
bar people — the ones who made
Milky Ways. Better check.

He went into the Press Secre-
tary’s office.

“This 1:30 appointment of the
President’s,” he said. “How about
that?”

“What about it?” asked the
Press Secretary.

The UP man put the calling list
on the desk.

“This Mars business,” he said.
“Is that a typographical error?”

The Press Secretary looked at
the list.

“No,” he said.

“That’s a straight answer, any-
way,” the reporter said. “Now
would you care to elaborate?”

“No,” the Press Secretary said.

The UP man was exasperated.

“Look,” he said. “This could be
the biggest story of the century, or
it could be only as big as Aunt
Emmy getting her foot caught in
the screen door. Open up, will
you?”

“You know I wouldn’t give you
anything exclusively,” the Press
Secretary said. “What you know
from me the other boys have to
know, too.”

“I’m not asking for anything
like that,” the reporter said. “Just
tell me this — or if you won’t tell
me, add it to the list, officially —
when you say Mars do you mean
Mars, Pennsylvania, or Mars the
candy bar or Mars the planet?”

“ I see your problem,” the Press
Secretary said. “Okay.”

He took the list and inked in
after Mars:

(The Planet.)

He handed the list back to the
UP man.

“This is the straight goods?”

“The straight goods,” said the
Press Secretary.

“ Is that all you’ll say now?”

“That’s all.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

The UP man went back to the
press room, walking casually.

The Associated Press reporter
looked up from the other end of
the room as he entered and asked:

“The calling list out yet?”

“I've got it,” the UP man said
carelessly.

“Okay, after you,” said the
AP.

AMAZING STORIES

The UP said “Right” and
eased into his phone booth. He
lifted the receiver and whispered
into the mouthpiece:

“Bulletin.”

“Go ahead.”

“Dateline. The White House
indicated today that the age of
interplanetary travel has dawned.
Paragraph.

“The sensational announcement
was made in the most routine
form possible. It appeared as a
single line on the President’s call-
ing list, which is posted daily in

the White House press room. The
list shows the people who will call
on the President in his office each
day. Paragraph.

“Today it listed quote Mr. Kjal
— K as in King, J as in Jerusalem,
A as in Apple, L as in Liberty —
comma Mars. (That’s Mars the
planet, Mac. Got it? Okay.) Un-
quote. The appointment was
scheduled for 1 :30 p.m.

“ (Yeah, I know it’s sensational.
No, of course I'm not drunk. Yes,
the Press Secretary confirmed it.
Okay, make it a flash if you want
to. Here’s the rest. Hurry up, or

the other guys'll get suspicious.
Yes, it’s a beat. You’ll be two or
three minutes ahead if you get it
right out.)

“Paragraph. A reporter checked
with the President’s Press Secre-
tary and was told that no mistake
had been made in the list. At the
reporter’s request he confirmed
that the Mars referred to was the
planet Mars, and not a town or a
company of that name. Paragraph.

“But the Press Secretary de-
clined to elaborate. It was indi-
cated that no further details
would be available until the Mar-
tian had actually paid his call on
the President. . . .”

The UP man came out of the
booth, perspiring. He lighted a
cigaret and tacked the calling list
back on the bulletin board as the
AP man strode over.

“You’ve been up to something,"
the AP man said. “I can tell.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah — say, what is this?”
the AP yelled. He pulled the list
off the board. His cry brought
over at a run the third wire service
reporter, the man from Inter-
national News Service. The INS
grabbed at the calling list but
missed. The AP held it over his
head and scowled up at it.

“Mr. Kjal, Mars,” he read.
“What the hell?”

The INS peered up, too. “For
crying out loud,” he said.

“It’s on the level,” the UP said.
“You needn't go running inside.

He won’t tell you any more than’s
right there on the list. You’d bet-
ter phone it in. I did.”

The AP lunged into his booth
and yanked the receiver off the
hook. “You'd cut your grand-
mother’s throat if your desk needed
a good homicide,” he said to the
UP. “ Bulletin!” he yelled into the
telephone. “Grab a sharp pencil ! ”

The INS threw himself into his
booth and cried “Flash!”

The UP went back into h-is.
“Send over two or three more
guys,” he said to his desk. “We
may need them. For your infor-
mation, AP and INS have just
started dictating. AP’s is a bul-
letin. INS is flashing it.”

It was lunchtime, but no one
went out to lunch. The White
House press room was crammed
with frustrated reporters who had
learned there was nothing they
could do until 1 :30.

They had bombarded the Press
Secretary with questions, which
were met by a series of “No com-
ments.” The Appointments Secre-
tary wasn’t seeing anyone. The
Department of State said all in-
formation would have to come
from the White House. The De-
partment of Defense said the
same. The Federal Communica-
tions Commission said it didn’t
know anything and sounded sulky.

The reporters sat around smok-
ing nervously or making them-
selves lunch from the stock of cold

AMAZING STORIES

cuts and beer in their private re-
frigerator, or watching television.

The set had been tuned to a
channel where a commentator was
talking speculatively about the
story while showing photographic
slides of Mars and waiting for the
arrival of his special guest, Mr.
Robert Willey, the noted rocket
expert.

The White House regulars were
playing their complicated stud
poker game, High Low Low-Hole
Card Wild, but they played with-
out enthusiasm and continually
looked at their wrist watches.

One-thirty was H hour. At 1:15
they sent out scouts to watch all
entrances to the White House, to
see how Mr. Kjal would arrive
and what he looked like.

But by 1:35 there had been no
sign of him and by 1:45 the re-
porters were in a state of fidgets.
Their desks kept the phones ring-
ing to ask if the Martian had ar-
rived and all the reporters could
say was that they didn’t know.
The Press Secretary was no help.
He declined even to say whether
Mr. Kjal Had reached the White
House. The most he would do was
to refuse to deny, when asked,
that the visitor was a Martian
from Mars. This negative scrap of
information was duly passed on
to the reporters’ respective desks,
who only demanded more, no
matter how trivial.

At 2:15 the Cuban Ambassador,
who had been standing, ignored

VISITOR FROM THE VOID

by the press, next to the huge
round table in the foyer, was
shown into the President’s office.

Mr. Kjal had not come out in
the usual way, if he had ever gone
in.

The Press Secretary leaned
back in his swivel chair and de-
clined to say whether the Martian
had left by a side entrance. Was
he still in the White House as a
guest maybe? No comment. What
were Mr. Kjal’s plans? No com-
ment. Would he describe the
caller? No. Had he, personally,
seen Mr. Kjal? No comment. It
was infuriating.

Would there be a statement?
Yes, one was being prepared now;
patience, boys, please.

Finally the girl came in with
a mimeographed statement. The
copies were torn out of her hands
and a torrent of reporters hurled
themselves through the door, into
the foyer where the Cuban Am-
bassador, hoping to be interviewed,
was forced to jump to a sofa to
avoid being trampled on. The re-
porters surged into the press room
and to the telephones, yelling like
wild animals.

On their way to the phones the
reporters had discovered that the
statement consisted of just one
sentence. It said merely that the
President and Mr. Kjal had had
a 40-minute conversation during
which topics of mutual interest
were discussed.

The statement was dictated to

their desks by the reporters with
what elaboration they could mus-
ter, and then the torrent was back
in the Press Secretary’s office.
There would be no further state-
ment today, he said.

“The lid is on, boys,” he said.
That meant there would be no
more news of any kind from the
White House, short of something
transcendental.

Would the President have a
statement at his press conference
tomorrow?

That would be up to the Presi-
dent, the Press Secretary said.

Would the conference be held
at the usual time?

Yes, at 10:30 a.m., in Old State.

There the matter had to rest
overnight. Thousands of words
flowed out over the news wires
and over the radio waves and
through television receivers, but
ninety-five per cent of them were
speculation.

It was the biggest story since
the discovery of the New World,
but all the details could have been
put into a thimble.

The auditorium in the Old State
Department Building across from
the White House was filled to the
doors an hour before the sched-
uled time of the press conference.
Every reporter with White House
accreditation was there. So were
scores of special correspondents
for whom temporary cards had
been issued and who had flown in

from the north, south and west.

The three wire service corre-
spondents were down front, in the
first row of chairs. Close by were
the men from the New York
Times, the Washington Star, the
Chicago Tribune, Reuters of Lon-
don, Agence France Presse, and
Tass.

There was a murmur of talk
and a creaking of the wooden
chairs as the reporters waited,
impatiently. Even the most blas6
of them might have admitted a
tense excitement.

They watched the door the
President would come through.
He was late. His aides already
were at their places at the front
of the auditorium. Finally the
President came in, alone.

He was smiling, but it was a
subdued smile. He exchanged
greetings with the three wire serv-
ice correspondents and a few
other reporters he knew by name.

The President waited quietly
for the last of the talk to die away
in the large auditorium. He took
out a handkerchief and patted his
head. He put the handkerchief
away in an inside pocket, then
adjusted the double-breasted suit.

When it was quiet the Presi-
dent whispered to an aide and re-
ceived a sheet of paper.

He said he had an announce-
ment. There was a great rustle of
paper as the reporters prepared to
write down each word. Then, with
a grin, the President announced

AMAZING STORIES

the appointment of a new member
of the Federal Reserve Board.
There was a laugh, in which the
President joined, and some of the
reporters dutifully made notes.

The President handed the sheet
of paper back to the aide and said
that was all he had today. Were
there any questions?

There was bedlam. The Presi-
dent smiled and shook his head
and raised his arms to quiet the
noise. He asked those who had
questions to hold up their hands
and said he would recognize them
individually. He nodded first to
the AP, who asked:

“Is it true, Mr. President, that
you had a conference yesterday
with a Mr. Kjal, a resident of
Mars, the planet?”

The President, following cus-
tom in declining to permit direct
quotation of his remarks, said Yes,
and a very pleasant conversation,
too.

The UP asked what language
the conversation had been con-
ducted in.

English, the President replied.
Mr. Kjal spoke the language
excellently.

The National Broadcasting
Company asked if the President
would repeat that pronunciation
of the Martian’s name.

The President did, saying the
k was silent and the j was like the
j in the French Jacques or Jean.

The INS asked for a description
of the visitor.

The President said Mr. Kjal
had asked not to be described and
he would respect his wishes.

The Christian Science Monitor:
“ Is Mr. Kjal the representative of
one race or nation on Mars, and if
so how many nations are there?”

Mr. Kjal was the representative
of the only race on Mars, the
President replied, saying Mr. Kjal
had full authority from his gov-
ernment to conduct the conference
with the President.

The Washington Post: “Are the
Martians friendly? Not warlike,
that is? ”

The President chuckled and
said that Mr. Kjal was quite
friendly.

The Chicago Tribune: “What

VISITOR FROM THE VOID

form of government does Mars
have? I mean, is it for instance a
socialistic welfare state form of
government?”

The President replied that the
form of government was rather
complex and could not be con-
veniently tagged with any one of
the terms used on Earth.

The New York Times: “By
what means did the Martian ar-
rive and is he still here on Earth? ”

The President said he was not
at liberty to describe Mr. Kjal’s
means of transportation and added
that the Martian had returned to
his planet.

The New York Daily Mirror:
“Did he arrive by flying saucer?”

The President, amid laughter,
replied that he could say flatly
that Mr. Kjal had not arrived, or
departed, by flying saucer. He
added that he would entertain no
further questions about the means
of transportation.

Tass, the Soviet news agency:
“Why did he choose the United
States instead of the Soviet Union
to visit? Not that it isn’t possible
that the Martian hasn’t already
visited that great country, long
before he came to Washington.”

No comment, said the Presi-
dent.

The Atlanta Constitution: “Mr.
President, I wonder if you would
care to tell us, in your own words,
the reasons behind the Martian’s
visit and what the meaning of it
is, as you see it?”

The President replied that the
visit had been an extremely in-
teresting experience and he was
honored to have been chosen by
Mr. Kjal from among the Chief
Executives of many great nations
on Earth for the conversation they
had had. But the President added
that he would prefer not to dis-
cuss the matter philosophically;
only in a factual way.

The three wire service men were
becoming restive. They did not
want the story to become too com-
plicated. It had to be dictated at
top speed after the traditional race
to the telephones when the press
conference broke up, and they’d
had just about enough to handle
easily. They needed one or two
more points cleared up first,
though, and after a hurried con-
ference among themselves the
three shot up their hands simul-
taneously. The President recog-
nized them in turn.

The AP: “Does the Martian
plan another trip to Earth, and if
so, when?”

Mr. Kjal did not plan to return,
nor did any other Martian expect
to make the trip, as far as he
knew, the President replied.

The INS: “Did Mr. Kjal say
whether there were any other
planets besides Mars and Earth
that have intelligent life?”

The President said that was a
very good question but he re-
gretted that the subject had not

AMAZING STORIES

come up in his conversation with
Mr. Kjal.

The UP: “Does Mr. Kjal’s
visit perhaps mean that the United
States is closer to achieving inter-
planetary travel than most people
realize?”

No comment, the President
said.

The UP: “Let me put it an-
other way, then. Would you say
that one of the results of the visit
was to help pave the way for
peaceful relations between Earth
and Mars when we eventually
achieve interplanetary travel?”

He would, the President said;
definitely.

The senior wire service corre-
spondent cut through a sudden
clamor of other questions from
behind him to cry:

“Thank you, Mr. President!”

As always, that was the signal
that the conference had come to
an end.

The three wire service men
broke into a dead run for their
telephones.

That was all the world ever
learned officially about Mr. Kjal,
the man from Mars. The news-
papers, the broadcasters, the tele-
vision stations and the magazines
played the story, sensationally or
factually, in accordance with their
editorial policies. Many newspa-
pers printed the transcript of the
press conference in full, to show
their readers exactly how the
story had developed.

Dozens of “it was learned” or
“sources close to the White
House” stories appeared in print,
but none was authoritative and no
one outside the President’s official
family ever knew any more than
the President had told the press
that day.

It had been the truth, of course,
as far as it went.

But the President had not told
the reporters that the visit from
Mr. Kjal had been a strangely
spiritual experience. In fact, the
President by revealing the exact
nature of their encounter might
have had his sanity questioned.
And yet the visit could not have
been ignored. The press, and
through it the world, had to be
told — but just so much.

That night, in the privacy of
his study with his personal jour-
nal open on his desk, the President
tried to reduce his experience to
words. It was extremely difficult.

Mr. Kjal had materialized in
this very room two nights ago, in
the most reassuring way possible.
He had sent a thought ahead of
him, telling the President what he
intended to do, and directed the
President’s eyes toward the wing
chair beside the fireplace. Then,
as the President watched, the
chair shimmered as if momen-
tarily obscured by haze and Mr.
Kjal was sitting there, smiling.

The President found himself
smiling, too. It was the friendliest

VISITOR FROM THE VOID

imaginable kind of meeting — no
fear or doubt marred it and there
they had talked, for four hours,
like two old friends.

Their talk had been of every-
thing and nothing. They spoke of
the President’s deep concern that
the Earth might again be torn by
war despite the hopes of its people
for lasting peace. They spoke of
hunger and disease and of per-
sonal insecurity. They spoke of
childhood.

The President recalled a tran-
quil time when he had fished in a
country brook with a golden-
haired collie sitting tall beside him
on the bank. And Mr. Kjal spoke

of his childhood, too, in such a
familiar way that the President
felt that his visitor might have
been a boy from the next town
when he had fished the brook and
that if he had gone upstream they
might have met.

No, he could not have described
the conversation to the reporters.
He had explained this to Mr. Kjal
and the Martian himself had sug-
gested that he make an appear-
ance in the President’s executive
office the next day so he could say
truthfully that Mr. Kjal had been
a White House caller in the ac-
cepted sense of the term.

The President, seeking the right
words for his private journal, re-

called an article in which the dean
of a divinity school theorized that
beings of other worlds might have
supernatural gifts — which would
have explained, theologically, Mr.
Kjal’s mysterious journey from
Mars. The supernatural had no
need of space ships. But the public
did, if it was to accept Mr. Kjal
at all.

The President thought then of
the growing public belief that
travel to Mars and other worlds
was to be possible. But what
strange forms limited imagina-
tions had assigned to these men
from Mars! How far from the
mark they had been.

They had visualized semi-mon-
sters instead of semi-gods.

He doubted if the reporters
would have swallowed that one
without considerable carrying on.

And how could the President
have replied to the question put to
him by the reporter from the At-
lanta Constitution?

He could have said that since
Earth had directed its attention
to Mars and the conquest of the
space between the planets a need
had arisen for mankind to be
worthy of that conquest. That
Mr. Kjal was the embodiment of
that need. That the greedy, bel-
ligerent, precocious infant Earth
was on the path to the stars — a
path bordered with things of
beauty and fragility. That only a
well-adjusted, mature Earth could
be permitted to travel that path,

as a friendly, curious creature in a
new world — a humble creature
willing to be shown the way.

But not a destroyer. A destroyer
would have to be destroyed.

The President could picture the
headlines this would have evoked :
“Earth .Gets Martian Ultimatum!”

No, he had said enough to the
reporters.

Now the details of the Martian’s
visit were beginning to blur in his
mind, desperately as he tried to
retain them. But he knew this —
because of the visit he would be a
wiser man and through the great
power of his office the world would
be a better place.

The President mused for a time
longer and then he wrote in his
journal. There didn’t seem to be
much to put down, now.

He wrote only this:

“Had a pleasant meeting with
Mr. Kjal, of Mars. He is a fine,
sincere man who represents a
learned, peaceful people. He has
returned home and said he would
not come again. We will see him
again, one day, but only when our
people have the knowledge to per-
mit us to travel to his land.

“It is my fervent wish that
when that time comes we will be
as spiritually advanced as we are
scientifically and that the people
of our world will live peaceably
and profitably in communion with
the people of his world.

“Mr. Kjal thought that every-
thing would work out all right.”

VISITOR FROM THE VOID

AN AMAZING VIGNETTE

HANDS

BY RICHARD STERNBACH

The story of the creation, in all its majesty, was written in
six hundred words. Will the destruction be told as briefly ?

H e was a gigantic figure, sit-
ting there atop the moun-
tain. He could have leaned over
and dammed the river below with
a finger. He sat on top of the
mountain, and his beard in the
wind was a white flag.

Across the plains, as he watched,
there were fires glowing, and the
mountain under him trembled
from explosions a thousand miles
away. He bent his head, and a
muffled cry reverberated down
the hillside and through the valley.

A smaller figure appeared beside
him, looking sad.

“Try again, father,” the smaller
one said.

The old one shook his head. “It
would be the same.”

“Give them another chance.”

“They would do it again.”

“Just once more.”

The old one shook his head
again, and for a while they sat,
and they watched the destruction.
The fires burned higher, and the
explosions shook their mountain
more roughly.

At last, at the end, the old one
reached down and scooped up
some clay from the bank of the
river. He held it in a huge, gentle
hand, and the younger one smiled.

“You are good to give them
another chance, father.”

“Not them,” said the old one.

“What do you mean?” the son
asked, wonderingly.

“Something else,” the majestic
figure answered, starting to knead
the clay. “What shall it be?”

Illustrator: Ray Houlihan

BY VERN FEARING

This world we live in is a pretty grim place. It's
tough to make a living. At any moment we may get
blown up, down or sideways by the atom bomb. The
day after tomorrow may never come, and on-top of
all this, TV commercials are getting worse and
worse. It seems that our only salvation is a sense of
humor, so we give you “ The Sloths . . a very
unserious yarn.

B radley Broadshoulders — friends called him
“Brad”, or “Broad”, or “Shoulders” — stood
grim-lipped, as is the custom of spacemen, and
waited for the Commander to speak fateful words.
He was an obese youth, fully five feet tall, without
a shred of muscle, but he wore the green tunic of
the Galaxy Patrol proudly, and his handsome, bony
head boasted a tidy crop of Venusian fungus. His
gleaming eyes gleamed.

“Brad, We Are In A Tough
Fix!” the Commander said sud-
denly. His name was Metternich,
known also as Foxev Gran’pa; he
had spoken in capitals all over
Europe and continued the prac-
tice since. “We Are Up Against
It!” he went on. “The Fate Of
The World May Be At Stake!”

“What's wrong, chief?” asked
Brad, jauntily.

“Plenty!” roared Metternich.
“Nobody’s Attacking The Earth
— That's What’s Wrong ! Nobody
Is Out To Conquer The Universe!
How Come, May I Arsk?”

Brad gulped. Could he believe
his ears? No one attacking good,
kind, old Earth? Was there noth-
ing in which a man could pin his
faith, let alone his ears? Were
they, indeed, his ears?

He turned to his best friend,
Ugh, who stood beside him. Would
he stand behind him? Did he
realize they were on the verge of
A Mission? Ugh was a pastiche, or
intermezzo — a cross between a
Martian and a Texan — as loath-
some and stupid a combination as
one could wish. Why he was
Brad’s best friend was a mystery.
Squarely, he met Brad’s gaze,
which left him an eye to spare. It
winked, and Brad shuddered.

It was an omen . . .

“I Want To Know Why!” the
Commander shouted. "You Have
Your Secret Orders! Off With
You!”

A really fat omen.

The good ship, Lox Wing, was
almost ready to go. She was a fine,
spaceworthy craft, Brad knew;
just the same, it was disconcerting
to see rats deserting her by the
thousands. Not that he missed
them ; some were sure to return as
soon as Ugh appeared on the
scene; he seemed to fascinate
them.

Just then, the rats paused. Sure
enough, Ugh was coming. He was
reeling. He had apparently made
the rounds, as is the custom of
spacemen, swilling vast quantities
of airplane dope, and he was high
as a kite. Brad glommed him
glumly in the gloaming, with more
than a glimmer of gloomy fore-
boding. It was wrong, he thought,
all wrong. If only it hadn't been
too late to turn back. But it
wasn’t. They hadn’t even started
yet. If anything, it was too early.
There was no way out. He entered
the spaceship with a Si. Si, whose
whole name was Silas Mariner,
shook his hand weakly, muttered :
“Remember the Albatross /” and
tottered out.

1 1 was an omen . . .

Presently, Brad and Ugh were
blasting off. As the cigar-shaped
vessel rose to the starry void,
spacemen, their visages lined and
tanned like cigars, held their cigars
aloft in silent salute and gently
flicked their ashes, while softly, a
cigar band played “ Maracas, Why
You No Love Me No More?”

Two days out, Brad summoned

AMAZING STORIES

Ugh. “ I low fast art* wc going?”

‘‘Oh, say. . . .• 30,000 miles an
hour?”

Brad calculated rapidly and put
down his abacus. “At this rale
it’ll take us 14 years just to get
out of our own lousy solar sys-
tem!” he barked. “Faster!"

. Ugh said Yes, Sir, and vice
versa. Then he upped the speed
to 186.000 miles per second and
came back and shvlv told Brad.

Brad said “Bah! We’ll be 70
years reaching the Big Dipper!
Faster!”

"But nothing can’t go any
faster!” protested Ugh. "Accord-
ing to Einstein

"To lull with Einstein!” roared
Brad. "Is he paying your salary?"

So they went faster.

The ship sped onward — unless
it was upward — to fulfill its Mis-
sion. Again and again Brad found
himself wondering where he was
going. The Mission was a real
stiif. He knew only that since
there was practically no life any-
where in the solar system, except
for good, kind, old Earth — Earth
had seen to that — anyone at-
tacking Earth - or not doing so

was obviously somewhere in
outer space! But here the trail
ended.

Courage, he told himself, cour-
age! After, all, was he not the
grandson of Pierre Frontage, in-
ventor of the rubberband motor?
With a start, he realized he was
not.

His own heritage, while cov-
ered with peculiar glory, was a
more tragic one the space men’s
heritage. The Broadshoulders were
brave, but things happened to
them. His grandfather, a traffic
officer, had chased a comet for
speeding, and had. unfortunately,
overtaken it. His father had been
spared the fire, but one day,
aboard his spaceship, someone
spilled a glass of water. The
gravity was o.i al the time, and
the water just hung there in mid-
air until Brad's father walked
into it and drowned.

What would be his own end,
he wondered? What other way was
there to die? Just then, through
the bulkhead, he could hear Ugh
swinging in his hammock, playing
the violin. He wondered if the
rats were dancing, like the last
time he’d surprised him. Another
thought was on the way, some-
thing about rats and a new way to
die, but Brad was already asleep,
mercifully having a nightmare.

It was morning of the fifth day
when the Emergency Alarm (E-A)
was suddenly activated ! I nstantly,
a host of automatic devices went
off. One turned on the fan, an-
other blew the fuses, a third made
the beds. Bells clanged and bugles
sounded every call from Battle
Stations (B-S) to Abandon Ship
(J-r). Brad and Ugh slept through
it all. Nothing was wrong, except
with the Emergency Alarm (E-A).

THE SLOTHS OF KRUVNY

It wore itself out and the eventful
voyage continued.

Brad woke on the ninth day.
The 2-day pill he’d taken on the
third day had evidently done its
work well. He was rested, he felt
optimistic, again. When he looked
out the por thole, he could see
plenty of space for improvement.

— But what was that?

There, half obscured in a tum-
bling, swirling mass of misty gray
clouds, he could make out some-
thing white! He pressed his nose
against the porthole and strained
his eyes. It gave him the feeling of
peering into a Bendix, as is the
custom of spacemen. His mouth
went damp-dry. This was it —
whatever it was!

“Ugh!" he shouted, all agog.
41 Ugh! Ugh!"

Ugh dashed in, wheeling a
large kaleidoscope. Expertly, they
read the directions and trained it
on the mysterious formation. The
Indicator turned pale.

“By the ring-tailed dog star of
Sirius!” barked Brad. “Why, it’s
nothing more than an enormous
gallstone, revolving in space!"

“This is Sirius!" barked Ugh.

“That’s what / barked!”
snapped Brad. “And don’t ask
me whose it is! It's big enough to
support life, that's the main issue!
Prepare to land ! "

A strange, yet resplendent, civil-
ization, thought Brad, looking out
at a sunlit landscape, or gallscape,
of molten gold. The houses, stylish

igloos and mosques, were sturdily
constructed of 3-ply cardboard
and driftwood. Before each house,
mysteriously, stood a Berber pole
of solid peppermint.

Brad and Ugh bounded out of
their ship. The two bounders stood
there, encased in heat-resistant
pyrex pants, expecting the natives
to make things hot for them.
Dumbfounded at the delay, they
waited for the attack to commence.
It did not.

“ I never!” said Brad, presently.
“If we needed proof, we’ve got it!
Such a display of indolence is
testimony enough that these peo-
ple are responsible for not attack-
ing Earth! We shall have to use
stratemegy !”

Swiftly, he took off his pants,
revealing underneath the red flan-
nel costume of a 17th century
French courtier, complete with
powdered wig and Falstaff. Ugh
ran up a flag emblazoned witli the
legend: Diplomacy And Agricul-
ture, then planted beans all around
the ship, while Brad postured and
danced the minuet.

The clever scheme worked beau-
tifully. Soon an old man began
circling them on a bicycle, keeping
a safe distance. Clearly, lie was
someone of importance, for his
long white beard was carefully
braided and coiled in a delivery
basket on the handlebars. Fur-
thermore, he wore a glowing cir-
clet on his forehead — so that
Brad knew he was able to read

AMAZING STORIES

their minds — if they had any.

“How about throwing us a
couple circlets?” Brad cried.

Instead, the old man, who was
hard of hearing, flung them a
couple cutlets, which worked even
better, and had protein besides.

Thus fortified, they were es-
corted to the palace.

Some moments earlier, Brad
had learned first, that Kruvny
was the name of this unusual
culture, and second, that the High
Kruv himself, attended by all his
nobles, would see him. Brad had
then entered the Kruv Chamber,
or Trapeze Room, and he had
learned nothing since. 1 1 was all
true, he told himself. The High
Kruv was hanging by his toes from
a trapeze, and so were all his
nobles. The only difference was
that the High Kruv’s trapeze was
more ornate than the rest. Yes,
said Brad to himself, it was all
true; he had been shaking and
punching his head, and nothing
had changed.

“ I come,” he said, “from a far
away land — ”

“Shad-dap!” cried the Kruv.
“ Who cares?"

At this, the old man, who was
still on his bicycle, whispered to
Brad. “They’ve all got head-
aches,” he nodded, stroking his
beard sagebrushly. “It’s all part
of a great cosmic error — a trag-
edy played among the spiral nebu-
lae, to the hollow ringing laughter

of the gods! You see, we Sloths
are only half the population of
Kruvny,” he went on. “On the
other side of our world live the
Sidemen, or Sad Sax. Legend has
it that eons ago, the Sidemen were
mistakenly delivered a cargo of
saxophones, front Saks Fifth Ave-
nue.” The old man’s voice was
hushed as he added, “They have
been practicing ever since.”

“I see,” said Brad. “And that
accounts for the headaches here?”

“Small wonder,” said the old
man. “I bless the day I went
deaf.”

“ But why do they do it? ” asked
Brad.

“The Sidemen? They’re tryin’
to drive us off’n the ranch — the
planet, I mean. Yuh see, they
claim they made this whole durned
gallstone theirselves ! ”

“ Made it?” asked Brad, dully.

“Uh-huh.” The old man spat
Mercurian tobacco juice. “Just
like on Earth, where myrid mi-
nute oceanic organisms pile their
skeletons to form coral islands.
Yuh see, the Sidemen eat radishes
— loVe ’em, in fact — but it gives
’em gallstones. They claim this
whole world is the collected gall-
stones of their ancestors.” The old
man wiped Mercurian tobacco
juice from his beard and shoes.
“Kind of a hard claim to beat,”
he opined.

“1 see,” said Brad. “That ex-
plains the misty swirling clouds
all around this planet, and why

THE SLOTHS Of KRUVNY

it's seldom visible. You follow me?”

“Yep,” said the old man. “It’s
gas. Them radishes’ll turn on you
every time!”

Suddenly the High Kruv began
to sob. “Now you see, don’t you,
why we haven’t attacked Earth?
A body can't keep his mind on
anything around here! 1 asked for
a few secret weapons, and what
did I get?” He was blubbering
now. “Oh, I tried, I tried! Ap-
propriations and all that ; you may
be sure we lined our pockets —
but after years of stalling, they
showed up with two weapons they
swore were terrible enough to put
an end to war. One of them was a
water pistol.”

“1 sec,” said Brad. “And the
other?”

“A ray gun.”

Brad’s eyes brightened. “A ray
gun? May 1 see how it works?”

“ Indeed you may!”

A platoon of maroon dragoons
dragged in a queer apparatus. It
looked like a medieval cannon,
with a Victorian phonograph
speaker flaring from its business
end. The dragoons ranged around
the weapon, keeping their backs
to it. One of them clutched the
firing lanyard. There was a pause,
a brittle silence — then the lanyard
snapped !

‘"Ray?" shouted the ray gun.

“What was that?” asked Brad.

Twice more the lanyard snapped .
The ray .gun boomed: “'Ray!
Ray!' ”

“You mean all it does is shout
'Ray?"' asked Brad.

“Well, it can also shout ‘ Max"'
said the old man. “Fearful, ain’t
it?”

“Yes,” said Brad. He took a
piece of old parchment from a
breast pocket. “This,” he stated,
“is the original deed to Man-
hattan. Notice here on the bottom
where it says $24. I am signing it
over to you.” He signed with a
flourish. “Now you have a legal
claim, a crusade, and a nice piece
of property. Go get it!”

“But the headaches!” cried
the old man.

“Cool, man, cool!” said Brad.
“I'll mix a Bromo.”

“Is it habit-forming?” cried
the High Kruv.

“Not a bit,” said Brad, mixing
it. “Simply take one an hour,
forever. And now I must bid you
farewell.”

“Wait! “cried the Kruv. “ Don’t

"He dropped in Sunday to see Zoo
Parade and he’s been here ever since"

AMAZING STORIES

you want to take my lovely
daughter back with you?”

Brad looked at her. She was
lovely. She had scales, but she was
lovely. She had magnificent blonde
hair, some of it almost an inch
long, none of it pn her head, but
she was lovely.

“. . . Well,” said Brad, hesi-
tatingly. He had his eyes glued on
her; when he took them off, they
made a noise like vacuum cups:

" Pfffopp! "

‘‘Your mother won’t like her,”
whispered Ugh.

”... Well,” said Brad. He
could feel Duty tugging inside.
Nbt for him the pipe and slippers.
He was one of spaceway ’s men ; he
would go the spacemen’s way, off
into way men’s space. Waymcn,
not women, he told himself sternly.
The call of the Ether . . . the
vacuous void . . . the black vel-
vet wastes . . . the outspread
cloak of the universe, dripping
with stardust . . . the undreamt-
of galaxies . . . these were the
things by which he lived.
”. . . Well,” said Brad.

“C’mon,” said Ugh. “We’ll
only fight over her.”

Slowly, they bounded back to
their spaceship.

The ship sped backward, headed
for Earth. It was days before the
mistake was discovered, and this
alone spared their lives. For had
they completed their journey on
schedule — but why be morbid?

The fact is, the Earth blew up.

What a sight. The whole thing,
whirling one minute like the globe
in Miss Fogarty's geography sup-
ply closet — the next minute,
whamo!

“Gee,” said Ugh, soberly.
“Guess we’re lucky, huh?”

”... Well,” said Brad. He
hadn’t said anything else for days,
but he didn’t seem well at all.
Funny, he thought. They promise
you if you go on working, work
hard and don’t fool around, don’t
ask questions, just do your job,
everything’ll come your way. The
next thing they’re all dead, and
there’s nobody to complain to,
even. Was it selfish to think of
one’s career at a time like this?
No, he told himself. It was all he
knew. The Patrol was all that
mattered !

He did some rapid calculation.
They were far off the interplan-
etary travel lanes; their fuel sup-
ply was down to a single can of
kerosene; food for perhaps 2 days
remained. As he listened to Ugh
tuning his violin, scarcely audible
over the squeakings and squeal-
ings that filled the spaceship, he
realized that the only solution —
the only thing that could save
them, or the future of Earth men
— was for a shipload of beautiful
dames to rescue them within the
next 36 hours.

He figured the odds against this
to be fifty billion to one — but
Brad had fought big odds before.

Grim-lipped, he shaved.

Til E SLOTHS OP KRUVNY

One big name per story is usually considered to be sufficient. So
when two of them appear in one by-line, it can certainly be called a
scoop; so that's what we'll call it. II. L. Gold and science-fiction go
together like a l^londe and a henna rinse. Robert Krepps is also
big time. You may know him also under his other label — Geoff
St.Reynard, but a Krepps by any name can write as well.

- ENORMOUS ROOM

BY H. L. GOLD & ROBERT KREPPS

T he roller coaster’s string of
cars, looking shopworn in their
flaky blue and orange paint, crept
toward the top of the incline, the
ratcheted lift chain clanking with
weary patience. In the front seat,
a young couple held hands and
prepared to scream. Two cars
back, a heavy, round-shouldered,
black-mustached man with a
swarthy skin clenched his hands
on the rail before him. A thin
blond fellow with a briefcase on

his lap glanced back and down at
the receding platform, as though
trying to spot a friend he had left
behind. Behind him was a Negro
youth, sitting relaxed with one
lean foot on the seat; he looked as
bored as someone who’d taken a
thousand coaster rides in a sum-
mer and expected to take ten
thousand more.

In the last car, a tall broad
man put his elbows on the back-
board and stared at the sky with-

out any particular expression on
his lined face.

The chain carried its load to
the peak and relinquished it to
the force of gravity.' The riders
had a glimpse of the sprawling
amusement park spread out below
them like a collection of gaudy
toys on the floor of a playroom;
then the coaster was roaring and
thundering down into the hollow
of the first big dip.

Everyone but the Negro boy
and the tall man yelled. These
two looked detached — without
emotion — as though they
wouldn’t have cared if the train
of cars went off the tracks.

The cars didn’t go off the
tracks. The people did.

The orange-blue rolling stock
hit the bottom, slammed around
a turn and shot upward again,
the wind of its passage whistling
boisterously. But by then there
were none to hear the wind, to
feel the gust of it in watered eyes
or open shouting mouths. The
cars were empty.

“Is this what happens to every-
body who takes a ride on the
coaster?” asked a bewildered voice
with a slight Mexican accent.
“Santos," it continued, “to think
I have wait so many years for
this!”

“What is it?” said a woman.
“Was there an accident? Where
are wc?”

“I don’t know, dear. Maybe

we jumped the tracks. But it
certainly doesn’t look like a hos-
pital.”

John Summersby opened his
eyes. The last voice had told
the truth: the room didn’t look
like a hospital. It didn't look like
anything that he could think -of
offhand.

It was about living-room size,
with flat yellow walls and a gray
ceiling. There was a quantity
of musty-smelling straw on the
floor. Four tree trunks from which
the branches had been lopped
were planted solidly in that floor,
which felt hard and a little warm
on Summersby’s back. Near the
roof was a round silver rod, run-
ning from wall to wall; over in
a corner was a large shallow
box filled with something, he
saw as he slowly stood up, that
might have been sand. An old
automobile tire lay in the straw
nearby, and a green bird-bath sort
of thing held water that splashed
from a tiny fountain in its center.
Five other people, four men and a
woman, were standing or sitting
on the floor.

“If it was a hospital, we’d be
hurt,” said a thin yellow-haired
man with a briefcase under one
arm. “I’m all right. Feel as good
as I ever did.”

Several men prodded them-
selves experimentally, and one
began to take his own pulse.
Summersby stretched and blinked
his eves; they felt gummy, as

AMAZING STORIES

though he’d been asleep a long
time, but his mouth wasn’t cot-
tony, so he figured the blacked-out
interval must have been fairly
short.

“Where’s the door?” asked the
woman.

Everyone stared around the
room except Summersby, who
went to the fountain, scooped up
a palmful of water, and drank it.
It was rather warm, with no
chemical taste.

“There isn’t any door,” said a
Negro boy. “Hey, there isn’t a
door at all!”

“There must be a door,” said
the heavy man with the accent.

Several of them ran to the
walls. “Here’s something,” said
the blond man, pushing with his
fingertips. “Looks like a sliding
panel, but it won’t budge. We
never came in through anything
that small, anyway.” He looked
over at Summersby. “You didn’t,
at least. I guess they could have
slid me through it.”

“They?” said the woman in a
piercing voice. “Who are they?”

“Yes,” said the heavy man,
looking at the blond man ac-
cusingly, “who put us here?”

“ Don’t ask me,” said the blond
man. He looked at a watch, held
it to his ear, and Summersby saw
him actually go pale, as at a
terrible shock. “My God,” he
gasped, “what day is this?”

“Tuesday,” said the Negro.

“That’s right. We got on the

coaster about eleven Tuesday
morning. It’s three o'clock Thurs-
day!” His voice was flat and
astonished as he held up the
watch. “Two days,” he said,
winding it. “This thing’s almost
run down.”

“How do you know it’s Thurs-
day?” asked Summersby.

“This is a chronograph, High-
pockets,” said the blond man.

“Calvin, we’ve been kid-
napped!” the woman said shrilly,
clutching at a man who must
be her husband or boy friend.

“No, no, dear. How could they
do it on a roller coaster?”

“ Maria y Jose!" said the Mexi-
can. “Then for two days that
idiot relief man has had charge
of my chili stand ! It’ll go to hell !”

“Our things at the hotel,”
the woman said, “all my new
clothes and the marriage license."

“They’ll be all right, dear.”

“And where’s my bag?"

The blond man stooped and
picked up a leather handbag from
the straw. “This it?” She took it
and rummaged inside before she
said, “Thank you.”

“ I don’t like all this,” said the
Negro boy. “Where are we? I
got to get back to my job. Where’s
the door?”

“Come on,” said the man with
the briefcase shortly, “let’s get
out of here and find out what’s
what.” He was going along the
wall, pushing and rapping it.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

“How did they cop us, that’s
what I’d like to know. All I
remember is hitting the bottom
of that big clip, and then I was
waking up in here.’’ He stopped,
then said sharply, “I hear some-
thing moving. My God! It sounds
as big as an elephant.”

Then the wall began to glide
noiselessly and smoothly to the
left, and he scuttled back to the
knot of them, looking over his
shoulder.

The entire wall slid sideways
and vanished, leaving an open
end to the room through which
Summersby could see a number
of large structures that seemed
to be machinery, painted various
colors. There was no sign of
movement. He wondered, in a
quiet, detached way, what sort
of people might be out there.

“It sounded big,” said the
blond man again, and looked up at
Summersby.

“I am six feet five,” said
Summersby bleakly. “Whoever
it is will have to go some to top
me.”

An unknown thing moved be-
yond the room with a brief
shuffling sound and then a hand
came in through the open end. It
was on an arm with a wrist the
thickness of Summersby’s biceps,
an arm two yards long with no
indication that it might not be
even longer. The hand itself was
a foot and a half broad, with a

prehensile thumb at either side.
Summersby did not notice how
many fingers it had. The backs of
the fingers and the whole great
arm were covered with a thick
gray-black thatch of coarse hair,
and the naked palm was gun-
metal gray. Between one thumb
and finger it held a long green rod
that was tipped by an ivory-
colored ball.

There was no sign of anyone
looking in, only the incredible
arm and hand.

The others cried out and drew
together. Summersby stood still,
watching the hand. It poked
the stick forward in short jabs,
once just missing his head. Then
it made a wide sweep and the
stick collided with the fat Mexi-
can. He squealed, and at once
the hand shot forward, exposing
still more of the thick arm, and
prodded him away from the
group. He skipped toward a far
corner, but the stick had him now
and was tapping him relentlessly
toward the open end.

“ Amigo si" he yelled, his voice
full of anguish. “ Por favor, save
me!”

“Go along with it peaceably,”
advised the Negro youth fright-
enedly. “Don’t get it annoyed.”
He was shaking and his glasses
kept sliding down his sweaty nose
so that he had to push them up
continually.

“What is it?” the woman was
asking, over and over.

AMAZING STORIES

The Mexican was driven to
the edge of the room. The place
beyond seemed to be much larger
than their prison. He waved his
hands despairingly.

"Now, quick, you have only a
moment i to lo save me! Don't
stand there!"

The stick touched him and
he jumped as if he had been
shocked. The wall began to slide
into place again.

"Let’s rush it,” said the man
with the briefcase suddenly.

"Why?" asked Summersby.
The wall closed and they were
alone, staring at one another.

"There wasn’t anything we
could do," the Negro said. "It
happened too quick. But if it
comes in again we better light it."
He looked around, plainly ex-
pecting to be contradicted. "We
can’t get split up like this.”

“ Possibly one of us can suggest
something," said the husband.
He was a sober-looking man of
about twenty-eight or thirty, with
a face veneered by stubborn
patience. "We should make a real
try at escape.”

"We know where the door is,
at least,” said the blond man.
He went to the sliding wall and
threw his weight obliquely against
it. "Give me a hand here, will
you, big fellow?”

"You won’t move it that way,”
said Summersby. He sat down
on the automobile tire, which

seemed to have been chewed on
by some large animal. "It's prob-
ably electrically operated.”

"We can try, can’t we?”

Summersby did not answer.
In one corner, six feet off the
floor, was a thing he had not
noticed before, a network of
silver strands like an enormous
spider’s web or a cat’s cradle.
He stared at it, but after the
first moment he did not actually
see it. He was thinking of the
forest, and wishing dully that he
might have died there.

The woman spoke sharply,
intruding on his detachment; he
hoped someone would sit on her.
"Will you please do something,
Calvin! We must get out of this
place.”

"Where are we, anyway?”
asked the Negro boy, who looked
about nineteen, a tall, well-built
youth with beautiful hands.
"How’d they get us here? And
what was that thing that took the
Mex?”

"It doesn’t matter where we
are,” snapped the woman.

"Yes, if does, ma’am," said
the youth. "We got to know how
they brought us here before we
can escape.”

"The hell we do,” said the
blond man. "We can’t guess our
location until we get out. I think
you're right about the door,” he
told Summersby. “There isn’t
any lock to it you could reach

THK ENORMOUS ROOM

from inside. The mechanism for
sliding and locking must be inside
the wall itself. Nothing short of
a torch will get through to it.”
He came over to Slimmersby.
“We’ll have to gimmick it next
time it opens.”

“With what?” asked the wom-
an’s husband.

“Something small, so it won’t
be noticed.”

“Your briefcase?” suggested
the husband, who had a hard
New England twang.

“No, chum,” said the blond
man, “not my briefcase.”

“Hey, look,” said the Negro.
“What happened, anyway? I re-
member the coaster hitting the
dip and then nothing, no wind or
motion, until I woke up here. And
it’s two days later.”

“I lost consciousness at the
same place,” said the New Eng-
lander.

“Something was done to knock
us out,” said the blond man.
“Then we must have been taken
off the cars at the end of the ride,
and brought here.” He rubbed
his chin, which was stubbled with
almost invisible whiskers. “That’s
impossible, on the face of it,”
he went on, “but it must be the
truth.” He grinned; it was the
first time Summersby had seen
any of them smile. “Unless I’m
in a hatch,” he said.

“Are we in South America?
Or Africa?” asked the Negro.

“Why?”

“That hand !”

“Yeah,” said the blond man,
“that never grew on anything
American.” The colored boy
looked at him, ready to take
offence. “Could it be a freak
gorilla?”

“That size and with two
thumbs?” asked the boy. “And
what would it be doing roaming
around loose?”

“Could it be a machine?”
asked the husband. “A robot?”
His wife screamed, and Sum-
mersby got up and went over to
the door, getting as far as possible
from them. His stomach was a
hard ball of hunger, and he
wished he were a thousand miles
away. Anywhere.

“That hand was alive,” said
the Negro. “ I never saw anything
like it in biology, bnt I’d sure
love to dissect it. Did you see
those two thumbs? I don’t know
any animal that has two thumbs.”

“Would you come over, sir?”
called the New Englander. Sum-
mersby realized he was talking
to him. “We must plan a course
of action." Reluctantly Sum-
Ynersby joined them. “My name
is Calvin Full, sir, and this is
Mrs. Full.”

Summersby took his hand ; it
was dry and had a preciseness
about its grip that irritated him.
“John Summersby.”

“I’m a milk inspector. My wife
and I were on our honeymoon,”

AMAZING STORIES

said Full. “I work through the
southern portions of Vermont;
that’s in the New York milk shed,
you know.”

“ I didn’t know. I’m a forest
ranger,” said Summersby. Re-
tired, he thought bitterly, pen-
sioned off to die with a rotten
heart. They couldn’t even let a
man die on the job, in the woods.

“My work,” said Calvin Full,
“consists of watching for unsani-
tary and unsterile practices, mak-
ing tuberculin tests, and so forth.
I’m afraid I’m not much good
at this sort of emergency.”

His wife, who had been looking
as if she would scream again,
turned to him. Her almost-pretty
face, cleared of fright, was swept
by pride. “You’re as brave as
the next man, Calvin, and as
clever. You’ll get us home.”

“I hope so, dear. But Mr.
Summersby must be a great deal
more used to problems of this
sort.”

They all gaped up at him
expectantly. Because of his size,
of course; he was the big born
leader! “Sir” in trouble, “High-
pockets” when things were clear
again. The hell with them. He
kept his mouth shut.

The blond man said, “ I’m Tom
Watkins.”

“Adam Pierce,” said the Negro.

“What do you do, Adam?”

The boy pushed his glasses up
on his nose again, frowning. “I
go to C.C.N.Y. Summers, I’m

the Wild Man from Zululand in
the sideshow, and 1 shill for the
coaster when I’m not on duty. It
helps out my family some, for me
to be making money in the
summers.”

“i\re you taking subjects that
might help us?” asked Full.

“ 1 major in English. I’m going
to teach it when I graduate.
Then 1 take psych, biology, the
usual courses.”

“Hmm,” said Watkins, looking
at the end of the room through
which the Mexican had been
taken. “ Psych and biology. Could
be some use here.”

“What we need is a locksmith,”
said Summersby. He felt himself
unwillingly drawn into the group,
sharing their problems that were
not his, and it angered him. He
fished out a bent pack of ciga-
rettes, lit one and was about to
put the rest away.

“Nothing but a torch would
help. I know a little about locks
myself.” Watkins grinned gen-
ially. “I’m out of smokes,” he
said, and Summersby gave him
the pack. He took one and passed
it to Full, who declined. Adam
took one. The boy reached up
and pushed at his glasses again;
a look of irritation appeared on
his face. “Say,” he muttered,
“is this room a little wobbly, or
is it my eyes?”

“Wobbly?”

“Wavy. See how those tree
trunks are blurred?”

AMAZING STORIES

“You need your glasses
changed, Adam,” said Watkins.

“No, sir.” Adam took them
off and started to polish them
on a handkerchief ; then his brown
eyes opened wide. “I can see!”
he said. The others stared at
him. “My astigmatism’s gone!
My glasses make everything blur,
but I can see plain as noon with-
out ’em. Look, I’ve had astigma-
tism since I was a kid!”

“What happened?” asked the
woman, addressing her husband.
“How could that be, Calvin?”

“Don’t know, dear.”

“My headache is gone,” she
said. “I never realized it till
this boy mentioned his eyes.”

“Mrs. Full has suffered from an
almost constant headache for
years,” said Calvin, and sniffed
twice. “My post-nasal drip is
missing, too. Do you suppose my
sinus trouble is cleared up?”

“That’s what must have been
happening those two days we
were out,” said Watkins, knock-
ing ash from his cigarette. “We
were put through a hospital or
something. I feel good, even if
I’m damned hungry.”

Summersby looked from one to
another, detesting them; against
his will, against sanity and de-
cency that fought for recognition,
he detested them. He had a
heart for which there was no
help, a heart no two-day period
of miraculous cures could touch.
Their puny ailments had been

relieved, but he was still at the
slow, listless task of dying.

“Listen,” said Watkins jubi-
lantly, “whoever or whatever
brought us here, it’s a cinch they
don’t mean to harm us. They
wouldn’t mend us if they were
going to hurt us, would they?”

“In two days,” said Adam,
nodding hard. “Two days! How
could they do it?”

There was an air of near-gaiety
about them that repelled Sum-
mersby. In a desperate rebellion
against these boons handed out
to everyone but himself, he tried
to hurt them. “What do you
do to a duck before you cook it?
Clean it. Think that over.”

Adam Pierce looked at him
levelly. “No, sir. If that duck
has sinus trouble or bad eyes,
you don’t have to fix that up
before you eat it. No, sir.”

“What about the Mexican?”
Summersby asked. “What’s hap-
pened to him?”

Then the wall slid open again
and they all started forward;
Summersby looked after them
bitterly, feeling the resentment
drain out and leave only the old
hopelessness, the apathetic dis-
regard of everything but death.

Porfirio Villa had known from
the first that this adventure of
his was a mistake. His wife had
told him to stay off the roller

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

coaster, but he had sneered. What
could happen? The people always
got oft again, laughing and wiping
their brows. He had the bad
burn on his left hand, caused
by an accidental smacking of the
steam table in a rage at his fool
of a helper; — that idiot who now
had had charge of the stand
for two days! lodo feo! — and so,
enforced to a vacation, he must
step into the cars and go crawling
up that terrible incline, giggling
nervously, and then rush madly
down the other side. Dreaming
is better than doing; he should
have stayed in his chili stand and
dreamed of the ride.

For Dios! What a terror the
rising, what a discomfort the
drop, what a fearful thing the
disappearance of the park and the
awakening in this place . . . this
place a man could not believe in,
though he stood upon its floor
and gazed round-eyed, with
sweating lips and shaking hands,
upon its size, its devices for un-
known purposes, its impossible
inhabitant!

The thing was twelve feet tall.
Was it a machine? He had seen
machines in the revistas and the
cinema, looking much like this
one, a clumsy copy of a man
moving, speaking, tearing people
to pieces. There was also King
Kong, who resembled this thing.

If it was not alive, it moved
very creditably. The gray-furred
legs were long and thin, placed

on the sides of the body at the
waist; the arms, much thicker
than the legs, swung very low, and
must be fully eight feet long.
It was backing from him slowly,
holding out one hand — six fingers
and two thumbs, demonio! —
with the green stick. That stick
stung like a bee when it touched
you.

The monster was already a
good distance away. Porfirio cast
his eyes slyly to one side, the
other. There was a complication
of machinery so great that even
a teacher of mechanics would be
dismayed.

There! A hole between two pink
walls. He glanced once at the
thing, standing now with its im-
possible face turned down to him,
and then he ran for the hole.

It Was after him with a short
cry, but he reached the hole
and scuttled through, hour paths
faced him. What a time for de-
cisions! He took the left-hand
path, went round several turns,
came to two more openings. The
pink walls were smooth and fea-
tureless, well over his head so
that he could not tell where he
was. He ran like the mouse in
the game next to his chili stand,
the game in which suckers bet
on which escape — the red, green,
blue or white — the mouse would
choose. Paths opened and Porfirio
plunged on, losing his sense of
direction, becoming more terrified
as he went. His famished guts

AMAZING STORIES

dragged him down, made him a
weak frightened mouse indeed.

He panted past two doorways
and abruptly, like the flashing
of a pigeon’s wing, the greenstick
shot down before him, held in
that monstrous gray hand !

The stick appeared and disap-
peared, herding him, chivvying
him from place to place, all places
looking alike, till finally the great
room lay again before his eyes.
Whimpering, he stepped out of
the pink maze and leaned against
the wall, his chest and belly heav-
ing. He was done. Let it murder
him. A man could not run forever.

The brute stood over him.
Cautiously it brought its face
down to peer. Its eyes were set
in deep pits, there was a hole
between them, and far below in
the watermelon-shaped head, a
mouth like a man’s with lips the
color of rust on iron.

Panting, he gazed at it, then
flung up one arm in a futile blow
that fell short by two feet. The
thing was angering him. Let it
watch out for itself!

A hand, unnoticed, had crept
round behind him and now took
him by the back of the shirt, belt,
and trousers, and lifted him off
the floor. He regretted the useless
punch. Now he would be dead.

The monster inspected him,
prodding aside his bedraggled
collar points and digging gently
at his belly with the rod, which

did not sting him this time. It
made a sound from its mouth
like the last weak bellow of a
dying loro — “Mmwaa gnaa!”
then set him down once more
with a thump that jolted his
teeth, nearly fractured his ankles.

Maria y Jos6, but it moved as
fast as a lizard's tongue! Escape
was beyond hope.

It backed away from him, stood
by a huge box and gestured with
the green stick. It wanted him to
come. He walked toward it. The
box was enormous, oblong, like
a huge shoe box. Only when he
had come to it did he realize it
was the room in which he had
awakened earlier.

In this hall it was lost. Un-
touched by the monster, he looked
at the hall with seeing eyes for
the first time. It had yellow walls
and a gray roof, like the box. He
clapped a hand to his head. Like a
theater without seats! Over ten
varas high, thirty broad and forty
long: or he should say, being a
man of the States now for many
years, roughly thirty feet by
seventy-five by a hundred. Scat-
tered here and there in staggering
confusion were the machines, the
gadgets, the unknown things. All
colors he had ever seen were there.
It was gaudy as the amusement
park, but slicker and more fresh-
looking.

The creature laid a hand on the
box, and the wall began to slide
open. He looked up, and it ges-

THK ENORMOUS ROOM

tured, telling him as plainly as
words to go in. He was to enter
again. It seemed as happy a
thing to him as the breaking of a
Christmas (pinata?).'

He braced himself now. He
had emerged, while they had
cowered behind, refusing him aid.
Worms that they were, he would
show them the bearing of a hero,
one who had braved mysterious
dangers while all others trembled.
He sucked in his belly, threw
forward his chest, placed his fists
carefully on his hips and strutted
into the strawed room, turning
his head proudly from side to side.
He heard the wall close behind
him.

The worms came crowding to
him.

“What is it? What happened?”

Porfirio Villa, adventurer,
laughed. The relief that washed
through him was making him
shake, his empty stomach still
heaved after the panic, but from
somewhere in his soul he dredged
up the casual laugh. “Very little
happened,” he said. “Truly very
little of interest.”

Ill

Mrs. Full sat on the straw,
twisting her hands together. She
did not know she was doing it
until she had to disentangle them
to pull her skirt lower on her
folded legs, and then she de-
liberately put one hand flat on

the floor so that she would not
appear to be nervous. She wanted
Calvin to be as proud of her in
this terrible crisis as she was of
him.

But Calvin was calm, at any
rate; so she was impatiently
proud of him.

“We’ve got to slam something
into that opening next time the
wall slides back,” said Watkins.
She nodded at him approvingly.
There was a man who might be
of some help.

“What do you think these
creatures are, Mr. Watkins?” she
asked quietly, though she felt
like screeching the question.

“I haven’t the least idea,
ma’am.”

“Freak gorillas,” said Calvin.

“No, sir,” said Adam. “I’ve
been thinking. Wasn’t the Java
Ape Man about nine feet tall?”

“Five and a half’s more like
it,” said Watkins. “At least that’s
how I remember it.”

“Well, some fossil man was
nine feet tall,” said Adam dog-
matically. “Couldn’t that thing
be one of them? There’s plenty
of places in the world where a
race of people or animals could
have developed without Homo
sapiens being any the wiser. Now
suppose they got hold of us?”

“How?” asked Calvin.

“Through people working for
’em. We might all have been
doped and put on a plane and we
might be on an island somewhere

100

AMAZING STORIES

now, or in the middle of a jungle,
with these whatcha-may-call-
’ems."

“How were we doped?” per-
sisted Calvin.

“Gosh, I don’t know that!”

“And what the devil do they
want with us?" asked Watkins.

Mrs. Full did not hear what
Adam said. She was wondering,
with a cold horror, if the creatures
were near enough human to desire
white girls as — as mates. “Cal-
vin, we’ve got to get home!” she'
cried.

“We will, dear.” He patted
her shoulder. “ Don’t you worry.”

“Someone has to worry.”

“We all are, ma’am,” said the
pleasant Watkins. “Except you,
I guess, Summersby, ” he added
accusingly.

Summersby stared at him,
seemed about to speak, then
looked away. She was afraid of
this great man. He might be a
lunatic, with that lined, tormented
face.

“We might be in the East
Indies somewhere,” said Adam
thoughtfully. “A plane could get
us there from New York in a lot
less than two days.”

“Where are these East Indies? ”
asked Villa. Mrs. Full wished he
would stop rubbing his stomach
that way. It reminded her that
she was very hungry.

“Someplace near Siam,” said
Adam vaguely. “Question is, if

we’re there, or anyplace else for
that matter, why are we?”

A number of reasons shot
through Mrs. Full's mind, all of
them too fantastic to suggest
aloud. They might be potential
mates for these incredible animals,
or slaves, or food, or. . . . She
was surprised at herself for think-
ing of such things; one would
suppose she had been reared on a
diet of sensational thrillers.

She rose and walked aside,
ostensibly studying the green
fountain (which augmented her
suffering with its tinkling splash).
“Oh, Calvin,” she said.

He came over to her. “Yes,
dear? ”

“Calvin, I — ” she halted un-
able to phrase her question. But
he did it for her.

“I’ve been thinking: if there
are — certain basic needs — 1
mean,, if you find it necessary
to — ■”

“I do, Calvin,” she said grate-
fully.

“Oh. Well, there is the, hmm,
sand box. 1 believe it’s meant for
such, ah, purposes. ”

“Calvin! In front of you, in
front of these strangers?” She
was shocked, and put up one hand
to push nervously at her hair,
which felt untidy.

“We’ll ask them to turn their
backs. After all, such things must
be attended to. ”

“I’d rather die,” she said, but
not at all certainly.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

101

“There are sacrifices to be made
in this predicament, and modesty
is one,” he clipped out. “Er,
gentlemen. ”

Watkins said, “I -know, it just
hit me too. ”

“What?”

“ I’ve got to go to the john. ”

“Yes,” said Calvin stiffly. “I
suggest we retire to the farther
end from the sand box, while one
by one — ”

“We could rig a screen or some-
thing, but there isn’t anything to
do it with,” said Watkins. He
walked away; despite his out-
spoken manner, he seemed to
have the proper instincts.

Adam followed him. Sum-
mersby turned his back. Calvin
looked at the Mexican. “Come
along. ”

“Why?” asked Villa, raising
his black brows. “What is there
in a simple relieving of — ”

Calvin strode to him, catching
him by the nape, lifted him bodily
from the floor, and sent him reel-
ing after the others. He half-
turned, then walked on, mutter-
ing, “ Crazy gringos! ” Calvin went
and stood a little behind the
others, his back to her.

The minutes following were
interminable, horribly embarrass-
ing. At last she touched his
shoulder. “All right, Calvin,” she
whispered.

One by one the others used the
sand box. By the time they were

through with the unspeakably
primitive ritual, she had become
almost inured to it, and consid-
ered herself to be admirably calm.
There were unsuspected resources
in her nature, she thought.

“When do you suppose they
feed us?” asked Watkins. He was
holding his tan briefcase under
his left arm; he hadn’t once laid
it down. “I’m so empty I rattle. ”

“Soon,” said Calvin firmly,
and she felt reassured.

Summersby was standing by
the door- wall, his great hands
working along the seams of his
trouser legs. A violent temper,
held in check, thought Mrs. Full.
He was the worst of the problems
facing them, except for the un-
known animals.

Even as she looked at him, the
wall opened again. This time no
one jumped or shrieked, though
she felt her breath hiss back over
her tongue. Watkins said, “Well,
Viva, here’s your pal again. ”

The Mexican glared. Evidently
the joke was a stale one to him.
“My name is Villa, not Viva. I
hope you get a good taste of that
green stick, you little man!”

“Viva Villa,” said Watkins.
“Lead on. You know the way.”

The awful arm came in like a
hairy python, groping blindly
with the rod.

Summersby, standing near the
opening, was the first to be
touched. It tapped him lightly,
and he walked out of the room,

102

AMAZING STORIES

really very bravely, she thought.
The rod discovered Adam. The
boy backed up, too frightened to
put on a show of boldness. The
rod slapped him impatiently, and
he yelled and darted forward into
the other room. He and Sum-
mersby stood together, staring
up at something that could not
be seen from inside the prison
box.

“It’s electrical,” said Calvin.
“ Like a bull prod. ”

“Yes, dear,” she said automat-
ically.

“We may as well go out. I
don’t want you shocked.”

“All right, Calvin.” She took
his arm. Watkins had been caught
and herded out. As they stepped
forward after him, she glanced
sideways at her husband. She
would have liked to tell him she
loved him, but it would have been
too melodramatic. She pressed his
arm tightly, affectionately. They
walked out into the great hall.

Villa’s cursory description had
not prepared Calvin Full for the
reality of the huge beings.

There were three of them. They
stood absolutely motionless, gro-
tesquely humanoid figures with
smallish, sunken eyes fixed rigidly
on the people some yards away.
Then, as Calvin watched, two of
them thrust out their hands hold-
ing the ball-tipped rods. The
gestures were almost too swift to
follow.

He stared at the central figure,
and it gazed back with its with-
drawn, pupilless, rust-red eyes.
Its head was, as Villa had told
them, the shape of a watermelon,
with the eyes wide-set on cither
side of a gently agitating orifice
that was probably a nostril. The
mouth, very human in shape, with
full lips the color of the eyeballs,
was quite low in the face.' There
was a rough growth of gray-black
hair on the crown of the big head
and a fuzz of it, less dark, on the
face itself. There seemed to be no
ears.

Its body, long and thick, was
dwarfed by the. tremendous arms.
Its feet were large, toeless, .and
flat; its legs joined smoothly to
the trunk about halfway up. It
wore clothing of a sort, which
surprised Calvin Full, perhaps
more than anything else about the
being. There was a kind of short
sleeveless jacket of amber color
caught at the front by a long
silver bar, and a white skirt worn
under the legs, reaching from just
below the hip joints to the bottom
of the torso.

Its companions were almost
identical with it, except for cloth-
ing of different hues and varying
cut.

The thing in the middle now
opened its mouth and made a
noise that reminded Full of an
off-key clarinet.

“Gpwk?” it said, with a rising
inflection. “Hummr gpwk?”

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

103

Abruptly i( came forward, its
motions flowing and yet a. bit
jerky, its long legs carrying it
rhythmically, but with a hint of
gawkiness; Calvin -thought of a
galloping giraffe he and his wife
had seen in a travelogue some
nights before. It towered over
them, bending at the hip joints.

“Steady, dear,” he said.

“I’m all right,” his wife said
shakily, seeming just on the verge
of screaming.

“Wish I could say the same,”
said Adam Pierce, the Negro boy.
“What a specimen!”

“IvOok like anything to you?”
asked Watkins.

"Hell, no. Unless it's some-
thing from Mars.”

"Maybe we’re on Mars,” said
Watkins conversationally, but no
one responded.

It’s as sensible a suggestion as
the East Indian one, thought Cal-
vin. He had not the slightest idea
where they were, and he saw no
sense in worrying over it until
they had more information to
build theories on.

The beast making no further
move, his wife at last leaned
toward him and said in his ear,
“Calvin, can you tell what-- I
mean whether it’s male or fe-
male?”

He studied it carefully. He
couldn’t even make a guess. He
shook his head.

Then it reached forward its

stick and thrust it directly at
Calvin’s face. He backed off,
startled and somewhat frightened.
At once the thing touched Mrs.
Full with the ivory ball, as if to
separate her from the knot of
men.

She cried out in pain, and Cal-
vin leaped forward; he had a flash
of the great paw coming at him
with the prod aimed for his face
again. It touched his forehead, he
felt an intense shock, and then he
was powerless to move.

His mind screamed, he could
feel tiny muscles try sluggishly
to crawl deep under his skin, but
he was paralyzed where he stood
in an attitude of charging; he
knew his face must be twisted in
horror and rage, but he could feel
nothing. Only his mind and eye-
sight seemed wholly clear.

He saw his wife taken off,
stumbling unwillingly and looking
back at him over her shoulder.
Watkins said, (Calvin could hear
plainly, he found), “Watch it,
he’s falling!” Then the paralysis
left him and he slumped as though
all his bones had been extracted.
Someone caught him under the
arms, holding him up. He tried to
move, but aside from rolling his
eyes and lolling his tongue out,
he was helpless.

Summersby, behind him, said,
“Are his eyes open?”

"Yeah.” Watkin’s face ap-
peared before him. “Poor guy
looks half dead.

104

AMAZING STORIES

Calvin blinked and made a try
at speech, but nothing came out
but a flop-tongued drooling sound.

The two creatures remaining
near them squatted down and
observed them, making fragmen-
tary noises to each other. Watkins
started to walk after the third,
which had escorted Mrs. Full
across the wide room and was on
the point of making her get onto
a low platform on which were a
number of structures of purple
tubing and crimson boxes and
varicolored small contrivances.
One of the pair flicked its goad
across his path.

Villa said, “Come back, you
foolish, do you think you can take
that stick?” He sounded furious,
probably because he was afraid
of the beasts becoming enraged.

Calvin made a wracking effort
to say, “Let him go,” for surely
they couldn't stand callously by
and see his wife undergo the Lord
knew what tortures; but the sound
he made was unintelligible.

Watkins said, ' Blast it, Viva,
we don’t know what the thing
might do to her. ”

“Come on back,” said Sum-
mersby. “Do you want to get
this?” He hefted the limp Full.

Calvin writhed and managed
to move his hands up and down.

“He's gaining,” said Watkins,
coming back.

“Those rods pack a wallop,”
said Adam. “What sort of power

can they have in ’em? Seems to
me they’re away beyond our
science. ”

“They’re not hitched to bat-
teries,” said Watkins. “Say, look
at all this machinery. If these
animals built it, they’re a pretty
advanced race. ”

Mrs. Full was seated now on a
large thing like a chrome-and-
rubber chair, one of those modern
abominations which she and Cal-
vin so cordially detested. He
could not see her face. The twelve-
foot brute was moving its fingers
before her, evidently telling her to
do something. Calvin heard her
say plaintively, “But what is it?”

Summersby hoisted him up and
about then feeling began to come
back to him with a sharp, un-
pleasant tingling of the skin. He
said, “Help her!” quite distinctly.

“Nothing’s happening to her,”
said Watkins. “Take it easy.”

Mr*. Full was apparently pull-
ing levers and moving blocks of
vividly colored material back and
forth on rods; like an abacus,
thought her husband.

Suddenly one of the other pair
of creatures gave a cry, “Brrm
hmmr!” and pointed to the left.
From a muddle of gear rose a small
airship, orange, with a nose like a
spaceship and streamlined fins,
and a square box on its tail. It
made no noise, but rose straight
toward the ceiling, moving slowly,
jerkily.

Till*: liNORMOUS ROOM

105

His wife had her back to it. He
heard her give an exasperated,
bewildered cry. “What on earth
. . . what are you doing?" She
spoke to the creature as if it
understood. “I don't see why
you — ”

Calvin pushed free of Sum-
mersby. He could stand now,
shakily. The beast indicated a
blue block on a vertical bar; Mrs.
Full moved it down, the airship
halted and began to sail toward
them. “ Do you see the toy ship? ”
called Calvin. “You’re flying the
ship!’’

“Oh, my,’’ she said helplessly.
“What shall 1 do now?”

“This is crazy,” said Watkins.
“Absolutely crazy.”

“ Go on moving things, ” Calvin
called to his wife. “Experiment.
It wants you to fly it. ” It occurred
to him that this was too obvious
to bother stating. He must be
distracted by weakness. He
rubbed his tingling arms and
hands, hoping she wouldn’t crash
the ship. Villa and Adam Pierce
were calling encouragement to
her as the orange thing drifted
up and down and sideways.

Now the twelve-foot being ges-
tured briefly at a portion of the
apparatus, Mrs. Full caught his
meaning and moved something,
and the ship tilted and flew along
the wall without touching it. All
three of the creatures uttered
sounds that might be taken for
words of pleasure.

“Good girl!" yelled Watkins.
“Keep it up!”

She turned to them and Calvin
saw she was smiling. “There’s
really nothing to it,” she said.
The airship bumped into the wall
and fell. The animal above her
squawked and pressed down a
lever, which evidently sent out a
beam or impulse that caught the
ship in midair and held it sus-
pended. Then it grasped Mrs.
Full and carried her, flailing her
limbs, over to the corner.

Calvin started forward, appre-
hensive.

"Hold it, Cal, you don’t want
another shock.” Watkins took his
arm.

The creature kicked aside a
mound of small gadgets, sending
them helter-skelter, picked up
what looked like a big five-legged
stool and set it on its feet. It was
perhaps ten feet high. Then he
deposited Mrs. Full on its smooth
round top and turned her bodily
so that she faced the wall.

“Help her!” snapped Calvin.

“We can’t do a damn thing.”

“Just wait a minute, sir,” said
Adam. “He’s leaving her alone. I
don’t think he'll hurt her.”

She twisted her head around,
.looking frightened. Her legs hung
over the edge. The being strode
back with its curious gawky-
graceful walk, and firmly turned
her face to the wall again, using
one big rubbery finger. “Oh!” she
said, in a small voice, and re-

106

AMAZING STORIES

mained staring at the wall, like a
naughty child on a dunce’s stool.
The beast came over to the group.

The three talked among them-
selves, glancing at the men. The
airship hung on its invisible beam
of energy, ignored. Mrs. Full
patted up her hair. She must be
terrified, thought Calvin.

The three came to them, their
skirts swishing like taffeta. They
knelt — it was an odd movement,
their high-hipped legs angling to
the sides, their bodies slanting
forward as their heads dropped
toward the humans — and stared
at one and then another. The one
who was evidently the leader put
out his green goad, but slowly, as
if showing no harm was intended,
and pushed at Calvin’s jacket.
The ivory ball touched his chest
but no shock followed. The thing
made noises, perhaps comparing
his clothing with its own.

* ‘ Take i t off, Cal , ” said Watkins.

“Why?”

“He’d like to see it. Be
friendly.”

“That’s it,” agreed Adam, “be
friendly.”

He removed his jacket and
handed it to the brute, who re-
ceived it dubiously, fingered it,
exhibited it to the other two, and
dropped it. Calvin bent to pick
it up; the goad barred his way.
Two large fingers plucked at his
trousers. He felt himself flush
with outrage.

“No!”

Watkins chuckled. “ I’ll bet you
will.”

“Don’t make it mad,” said
Adam.

“ I won’t take my trousers
off.”

“If we took them off, it might
soothe this monster,” suggested
Villa. "Let us throw him down
and take off his pants.”

“Try it,” said Calvin. The
Mexican started toward him.
Then the creature had lifted him
high in the air, peering closely at
the trousers. It tugged at them.
“Ouch!” said Calvin. The beast
would tear them off; the humili-
ation of that would be worse than
removing them himself. It might
rip them to shreds. He loosened
his belt and unbuttoned and un-
zipped just in time; they came off
over his shoes and were held up
in front of the sunken red eyes.
Calvin was set down, carefully
enough, and the garment was
handed to the other monstrosi-
ties. Calvin cast a look at the
stool. He was glad his wife was
not witnessing his shame.

“Nice shorts,” said Villa.

Full whirled on him, angry-
enough to bark out an insult, even
an oath, but the man was evi-
dently sincere in his praise.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly.

His trousers were thrown to
him and he shoved his feet into
them and secured them once more.
He put on his jacket.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

107

One of the beasts which had not
taken an active part in the busi-
ness now walked to Mrs. Pull and
picked her up by the back of the
waist, as though she Jiad been a
cat, and brought her over. For one
ghastly moment Calvin thought
it was going to divest her of her
skirt, but after scrutinizing her a
while, it set her down among
them.

He took her hand. “Are you all
right, dear?”

She was amazingly calm. “I
am, Calvin, I am. I don't believe
they mean us any harm, after
all.”

The first great animal pointed
at the box, waving his prod.

“We’re supposed to go in again,
I guess,” said Watkins.

“Let’s go, then,” said Adam.
“No sense in getting shocked.”

They trooped in, and the wall
closed behind them.

Adam Pierce had an idea. It
had begun to grow in his mind
while the woman was running the
miniature spaceship, but he had
thought it ov<# until he was certain
it wasn’t so silly as to make them
laugh at him. Now he felt sure
he’d hit on the truth; too many
evidences for it, and nothing much
that he could see against it.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“To get out?” asked the wom-
an.

“No, ma'am. I think I know
where we are. ”

“Where?” asked everyone, ex-
cept the big man, Summersby,
who was sitting on the tire looking
away from them.

“In a lab! This is a laboratory,
and those big things are some kind
of scientists!”

“You could be right,” said
Watkins reluctantly. “My God,
what a spot, if you’re right!”

“Sure. That’s why we were
snatched off the coaster, however
it happened. They wanted to ex-
periment on us, and study us.
They got this lab someplace where
it’s secret, and they make tests — ”

“There was a contrivance like a
milking machine,” said Full.

“You don’t know what it's used
for,” said Adam darkly. He
imagined it might be an especially
nasty way of picking over a man’s
brains or body. “Look, it all fits.
That stool, that's a funny way to
punish a person, but all their stuff
is a little cockeyed.”

“By our standards,” added
Watkins.

“That's what I meant. Look,
you punish a guinea pig when it
does something wrong, if you’re
trying to teach it some trick or
other; I mean, suppose you want
to determine its intelligence, you
give it a problem, and if it does the
thing wrong it gets a shock,
maybe, or a bat on the nose. That
stool was punishment. If you
hadn’t crashed the rocket,” he

108

AMAZING STORIES

said to Mrs. Full, “it might have
given you a reward.”

“ Maybe some food,” said Villa.

“Here’s another angle,” said
Watkins, who obviously knew
something about lab work. “They
may be trying to give us neuroses.
Scientists induce neuroses in all
kinds of critters, by punishment
and complex problems and — "

"What is that?” asked Villa.

“Neuroses?” Watkins rubbed
his chin. “Well, say they want to
make an animal nervous, anxious,
worried.” Villa nodded.

“You mean they might be try-
ing to drive us mad?” said the
woman in a high scared voice.

“I doubt it,” said Calvin Full.

“They might be,” said Wat-
kins.

“Then let’s get out of here,”
said his wife. She went trotting to
the wall. “Didn’t anyone shove
a barrier into this?”

“1 forgot,” said Full. She gave
him a dirty look.

“Anyway,” Adam went on,
“that could explain why we were
fixed up before they woke us — it
was like quarantine. They
wouldn't want sick animals.”

“Who was fixed up how?”
asked the Mexican suspiciously.

“My astigmatism,” he said to
Villa, “and this gentleman’s sinus
trouble, and his wife's headache.”

“And they pulled a rotten wis-
dom tooth for me,” said Watkins.
“ I just discovered it a minute ago.
Hole’s healed up neatly.”

Villa was peeling away the ban-
dage on his hand. Now he gave a
glad shout. “ Madre de Dios! Look,
the burn has gone!” He showed
them his hand. "Tuesday, a ter-
rible scorched place; today, be-
hold, it is well !”

The woman said, “You know,
this might be a laboratory. When
I taught kindergarten we had
simple tests for the children that
were somewhat like that remote
control apparatus. "

Watkins pushed the big man,
Summersby, on the shoulder. “1
wish you’d get into this,” he said
irritably. “We need all the brains
we have to get out. ”

Summersby looked at him.
“You think we’ll get out?” he
asked.

“Why not?”

"Why?” Summersby sounded
tired, and as if his mind was a long
way off. “If these are scientists,
they'll keep a fairly close watch
on their lab animals.”

“You’re a forest ranger, man.
Don’t you have to meet emergen-
cies all the time?" Watkins was
exasperated. Adam thought, I
wouldn't talk to the big fellow
that way; he looks as wild as a
panther.

“I’m sorry,” said Summersby,
turning away again. “ I don’t
think we can escape, or plan to,
until we have more information. ”

“You needn't inflict your mor-
bidity on us,” said Full. “Be-

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

109

cause you’re a defeatist is no
reason lor us to be.”

Summersby stood up. He looked
as tall to Adam as one of the
monsters. ‘‘If we’re guinea pigs,
we'll end up as guinea pigs,” he
said. “And what do experimenters
do with guinea pigs, finally? They
infect or dissect them. Now leave
me alone!” He walked to the
farthest corner and sat down on
the straw, staring at his feet.

Adam reached up automatically
to push at his glasses, found them
missing, and was confused for an
instant. Then he said, “There's
a thought. We better bust out as
quick as we can. ”

“Summersby won’t help,” said
Watkins. “Anybody else feel fa-
talistic about this mess?”

“ I must get back to my chili
stand,” said Villa. "And my
wife,” he added.

“Adam, you’re nearer to college
courses than 1 am,” said Watkins.
Adam nodded. “How many places
in the world are there, big enough
and unexplored enough to hide a
race of giants like these?”

“1 guess parts of Africa and
South America, maybe the Arctic,
some islands. I don't really know.”

“Neither do I.”

“ Perhaps we aren’t on the earth
at all,” said Mrs. Full. They all
looked at her. “ I read a book once
in which a party of people dis-
covered a land beneath the earth’s
surface,” she went on, actually
blushing a little. “ It was a trashy

sort of book, but — but I thought
possibly there might be something
in the idea.”

“There might,” said her hus-
band.

“Wherever we are, we've got to
get out of this box before we do
anything else,” said Adam. He
felt panicky, as the realization
sank into him of what they might
be in for, in this alien lab, under
the care of scientists that looked
more like apes than anything.

“Look!” shouted Villa. Adam
whirled and saw the small panel,
that Watkins had discovered ear-
lier, just sliding open. A large
platter came through, heaped
with what looked like a collection
of junk. The huge hand which had
pushed it in withdrew, the panel
slipping shut after it. Villa was
the first to reach the platter.
“ Sa?itos ,” he muttered. “Santos
y santas! ”

The platter was two feet square,
of sky-blue plastic, and on it lay
seven pies, several dozen cup-
cakes, a double handful of maca-
roon cookies, and a quantity of
glass shards. Some of the pies
were upside down.

“What on earth ...” said
Mrs. Full.

“Looks like the contents of a
bakery window,” said Watkins,
leaning over with his briefcase
clamped to his thin chest. “Win-
dow and all, 1 might add. ”

Villa picked up a custard pic.

110

AMAZING STORIES

It had been smeared up by rough
handling but it looked good to
Adam. He chose one for himself,
and Watkins handed Mrs. Full
an apple pie. She thanked him.
They all took tentative bites.

“What do you make of this?”
Watkins asked Summersby, still
trying to drag him into their
group. The big man shrugged.
“The glass,” went on the blond
fellow, “that doesn't make sense.
Do they think we eat glass?”

“Possibly,” said Calvin Full.

Among the six of them, they
consumed all the eatable contents
of the tray. Almost immediately
Adam felt his eyelids drooping.
“I'm sleepy,” he said, yawning.

"So am I,” said Villa. He lay
prone and closed his eyes at once.

Adam sat down, more heavily
than he had meant to. He was
■vaguely disturbed by the sudden
tiredness.

"Someone ought to stand
guard,” said Mrs. Full.

"1 will,” said Summersby un-
expectedly.

“I’ll do it," said Watkins. He
started to pace up and down.
“I'm a little groggy myself, but
I’ll take first trick.”

When they were let out of their
prison box next morning — nine
o’clock Friday, by the chrono-
graph, and they had slept another
fifteen hours — there were five

of the gigantic beast-creatures
waiting for them. Any hopes that
Tom Watkins had had of rooting
around the big hall for a way of
escape died with a dejected grunt.
There must be well over a ton of
enemies there, with their caverned
red eyes peering down at the
humans. No chance to explore un-
der those gazes.

The boss of the alien scientists
— Watkins recognized it, or him
(or was it her?), by the clothing
and by certain differences in facial
structure — came and bent over
them. Watkins was smoking a
cigarette he had bummed from
Villa, Summersby’s having given
out the day before. He took a
hearty drag and blew out the
smoke, which unfortunately lifted
right into the creature’s eyes. It
shook its head and made a
squawking sound, “Hwrak!” and
flipped its green prodder into his
belly. He abruptb - sat down, with
the sensation of having stuck his
finger into a lamp socket. “My
God!” he said. Cal helped him up.

Summersby walked off toward a
twenty-foot-high door. None of
the beings tried to stop him. The
boss motioned Watkins to go with
it, so he rather shakily followed it
across the room.

Before him was a gadget that
resembled a five-manual organ
console. The banks of keys were
broad and there was a kind of
chair, or stool, fixed on a hori-
zontal bar in front of them. The

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

111

giant indicated that he was to get
onto it.

“Now what?” he said, when lie
had been stopped directly in front
of the apparatus. “Expect me to
play this? Look, Buster, I’m tone
deaf, I haven’t had my coffee yet,
and I'd just as soon dance a polka
as play you a tune. ”

The thing pressed down two of
the keys — they were of an ame-
thyst color, longer and more ta-
pered than those of an organ- —
and looked at Watkins.

“Drop dead,” he said to it. He
was always bitterly antagonistic
to everything and everybody if he
didn’t have three cups of coffee
before he got out of bed. “Go on,
you big ape, make me play. ’’

It hit him on the head with a
couple of its big rubbery lingers.
He felt as if a cop had sloshed him
with a blackjack, and all the
hostility went out of him. He
leaned forward and pushed down
half a dozen keys at random.

There was no sound, at least
none that he could hear, though he
remembered the whistle he had at
home to call his dog, and wondered
if the notes of this organ were
sub- or supersonic. Certainly there
was no reason to suppose this race
of creatures was limited to the
same range of hearing that hu-
mans were.

The thing went down the hall
some yards and folded itself into
a sitting position before a large

white space on the wall. When
Watkins did nothing, it. gestured
angrily with its goad. He pressed
more keys. It jerked its head
around and stared at the white
space.

Accidentally he discovered that
by pressing with his calves on
certain pedals below the stool he
could maneuver the seat to cither
side. The gadget began to intrigue
him.

He had never played any musi-
cal instrument, but had always
had a quiet desire to produce
music. He couldn't hear this
organ’s sounds, but he could go
through thi> motions with fervor,
lie did.

The boss scientist gazed raptly
at the wall screen ; was it concen-
trating on what he played? Did
his random selection of keys indi-
cate something to it, something
about his mental powers or emo-
tions or — what?

Or was it possible that the play-
ing produced images or colors on
the blank space? He craned his
neck, but could distinguish noth-
ing. Pounding on, he called over
his shoulder, “Come here, some-
body!”

No one answered. Pushing keys
at random, he turned to look for
them. Each of them was doing
something under the supervision
of a twelve-foot beast, except for
Summersby, who was still exam-
ining the door. “Hey, High-
pockets!” he yelled, knowing the

112

AMAZING STORIES

Illustrator: Tom O’Sullivan

113

big man hated the nickname, but
not giving a damn. "Summersbyl
Come here!"

"What is it?” said Summersby
in a moment, standing below his
seat.

"Take a squint at that screen
the old boy's gaping at. I want
to know what the devil I'm do-
ing. ”

Summersby walked over and
stood beside the scientist.

"What's happening?”

“ Nothing. "

" Nothing at all?”

"Well, the screen’s mottled
gray and while, and the pat-
tern’s swirling slowly; but that’s
all. ’’

"Is it particularly beautiful?”
asked Watkins.

"No. It's hardly distinguish-
able.”

Sliding right and left on the bar,
striking first one and then another
of the manuals, Watkins said to
Summersby, "What do you figure
these scientists are, anyway?"

" Mammals,” said the big man.

" 1 suppose so -

‘‘They have navels. They
weren't hatched.”

"Oh." Watkins hadn’t noticed
that. "Where are we, then?”

" I don't know. ”

Another scientist wandered
over and sat down beside the
first. Shortly they seemed to get
in each other’s way, and there was
a lot of shoving and squawking.

At last one of them hit the other
in the face with an open hand.
Then they were rolling on the
floor, snatching at one another’s
hair and pummeling the big
bodies and heads with those gar-
gantuan fists. It sounded like a
brawl between elephants. Watkins
swiveled round to watch. Mrs.
Full said to someone - Watkins
heard her distinctly in a lull in the
ruckus "If these are scientists,
what arc the common people
like?” For the first time that day
he grinned. He had stopped play-
ing the organ. The other scientists
had gathered around the fight and
were uttering strange cries, like
wild geese honking. Cheering them
on? he wondered.

Adam came over. "Mr. Wat-
kins," he said, “could we have
been wrong about them? Do you
think a scientist would act like
that?”

‘‘They sure seem to be a quar-
relsome race. Adam,” he said,
"they’re not noticing what we do.
Suppose you go look for a way
out. ”

“We want to get away as soon
as we can,” nodded the boy.
“Dangerous around here!" He
ran down the hall.

The giants arose and straight-
ened their clothing. They had
patched up their argument in the
midst of fighting over it. The
leader walked toward a tall device
of pipes and boards and steps, 1 ■
motioning Mrs. Full to follow.

114

AM A /I NO STORIES

Apparently Watkins had been
forgotten. He took his briefcase
off his lap, where he had held
it all the time he played, and
dropped it to the floor. Then he
hung by his hands and let go. He
picked up the case and went to
investigate the room.

Before he had done more than
glimpse the enormous door, he
was picked up kitten-fashion by a
scientist, who carried him off,
dangling and swearing, to another
infernal machine.

For a couple of hours they were
put through paces, all of them;
sometimes one man would be
working a gadget while all the
scientists and humans watched
him, at other periods they would
each be hard at work doing some-
thing the result of which they had
no conception of.

Several of the machines could
be figured: the pink maze, one or
two others; and Watkins had
at least a theory on the organ.
The sleek modernistic machinery
which directed the airship was
plain enough. There were certain
designs and arrangements to fol-
low that flew it up and down the
room. They were hard to memo-
rize but Mrs. Full and the somber
ranger, Sunimersby, became adept
at them.

Then there were the others. . . .

There was a remote control de-
vice that played “music,” weird
haunting all-but-harmonies that

sounded worst when the creatures
appeared most pleased, and
earned the punishment stool or a
brutal cuffing for the operator
when he did manage to produce
something resembling a tune.
Evidently bearing a relation to
this was the sharp slap Adam got
when he started to sing “The
Whiffenpoof Song” while idling
around a pile of outsize blocks
like a child’s building bricks.
What the human ear relished, the
giant ear flinched from.

There was a sort of vertical
maze that verged on the four-
dimensional, for when they
thought they were finding a way
out the top they would come
abruptly to the side, or even the
bottom, and have to begin anew.
This one was obviously impossible
to figure out, thought Watkins.
It must be one of the ways in
which the scientists induced neu-
roses in their experimental sub-
jects. He had a quick mind for
puzzles and intricacies of any
kind, but this one stumped him
cold.

“You think it’s calculated to
drive you crazy?” he asked Cal.

The New Englander considered
for a minute. Then he nodded.
“ Possibly,” he said.

“You think it might work?”

This time Cal pondered longer.
At last he said, “Not if we don’t
let it.”

“1 could develop a first-class
neurosis,” said Watkins to Mrs.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

115

Full, “if I let myself really go.”

“We must all keep our heads,
Mr. Watkins,” she told him.
“Those of us who have not given
up — She glanced at Summersby
with a frown — “must hold a
tight rein -on ourselves. ”

“That's right, ma’am,” he
said. They all called her “ma’am ”
or “Mrs. Full.” Nobody knew
her first name. He wondered if
she’d be insulted if he asked her,
and decided that she would.

Capriciously, then, on the heels
of a series of punishments, the
head scientist went out of the
room and came back with food
for them. It Hung the food —
three chickens — on the floor.
Villa snatched one of them up
with a happy shout, but at once
his dark face soured. “Raw? How
can we cook them?” His hand
with the fowl dropped limply to
his side.

“We can make a fire,” said
Calvin. Watkins was a little sur-
prised that it was Cal who made
the suggestion first, but the
Vermont man added, “I’ve made
enough campfires to know some-
thing about it. ”

“Mr. Full is an enthusiastic
hunter,” said his wife.

“A fire of what?” asked Villa,
managing to look starved, help-
less, and wistful, all at once.

Summersby said, “There are
plates of plastic over there, and
plenty of short rods. 1 don’t know
what these beasts use them for,

but if they’re fireproof, we can
construct a grill with them.” He
went without further talk to a
stack of the multicolored slabs
and dowels, which lay beside a
neat array of what looked like
conduit pipes,. electromagnets, and
coiled cable. He picked up an
armload. One of the giants put a
hand down before him. He pushed
it aside and strode back to the
group. Gutty, thought Watkins,
or just hungry? Or is it his sense
of kismet?

“I’ll cut some kindling . from
the trees in our room,” said
Calvin. “Who has a knife?”

Summersby handed him a large
pocket knife, and set about mak-
ing a grill over two of the plastic
slabs. It was a workmanlike job
when he had finished. He held his
lighter under one of the rods,
which was apparently impervious
to fire. He nodded to himself.
Looks more human, thought Wat-
kins, than he has yet.

Villa was plucking one of the
chickens, humming to himself.
Mrs. Full was working on another,
Adam on the third. Watkins felt
useless, and sat down, running
his fingers along the smooth side
of his briefcase.

Cal made a heap of chips and
pieces of wood and .bark under the
grill. Summersby lit it. The giants,
who were grouped around them
at a few yards' distance, mumbled
among themselves as the shavings
took flame. The plucked and

116

AMAZING STORIES

drawn fowls were laid on the
grill. Watkins’ mouth began to
water.

“Now if we only had some
coffee,” he said to Adam. “One
lousy pot of greasy-spoon coffee!”

“I have seen you,” said Villa
to Adam, who was gnawing on
a drumstick. “You wear the wig
and a bone in the nose, and a tiger-
skin around you.”

“Sure,” said Adam. "I’m the
Wild Man from Zululand. It’s one
job where my color’s an ad-
vantage. ”

“A fine job!” said Villa. “You
should have come down to my
stand. The best chili in New
York.”

“ I had a bowl there last week.
Without my make-up, I mean.”

“I will give you a bowl free
when we go home. With tacos,”
added Villa generously.

“It’s good stuff,” said the boy.

Calvin Full wiped his fingers
and his lips on a handkerchief. He
looked about at the hall, through
which the giants had now scat-
tered; some of them were tinker-
ing with the machines, others were
simply loitering, as if bored by the
whole matter of scientific research.
They had lost their early wariness
of the humans, and did not carry
the green goads, but kept them
tucked into holsters at the back
of their swishing skirts.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

One of them removed the blond
man, Watkins, and set him to
doing something with a pipe-and-
block apparatus. The processes
they went through with their
strange mechanical and electrical
gadgets, the end results they
achieved, were a mystery to Cal-
vin. And as the afternoon wore
on, their conduct as a whole
became even more mysterious.
It was, from human standards,
totally irrational. One would be-
gin a test, analysis, or whatever
it might be; he would follow it
through its devious windings to
its ambiguous result, or to no
result, and suddenly leave it to
begin something else, or come to
watch the humans perform.

The longer he observed their
conduct, the more worried he
became. Finally, after a good bit
of hiding and spying, he found out
something which he had been try-
ing to figure for hours; and then
it seemed time for him to talk
to someone about their escape.

The blond man had been peer-
ing into his briefcase. He zipped
it shut quickly as Calvin ap-
proached, with a kind of guilty
movement. What does he have in
there? Calvin wondered.

“Mr. Watkins,” he said, rub-
bing his chin and wishing he had
a razor, “did you ever see a
scientist, or laboratory assistant,
skip from one thing to another as
these creatures do?”

117

“ I never did. ”

“Nor did I. They don’t take
care of their equipment, either;
several times one or another has
kicked down a neat pile of gear,
and once I distinctly heard some-
thing break.”

“It might be junked machin-
ery,” suggested Watkins.

“ 1 doubt it.”

One of the giants made a rau-
cous noise — Brangg!

“And how irritable they are, in
addition to their capriciousness
and sloppiness! I can’t imagine a
race of emotional misfits produc-
ing equipment of such complexity.
Their science is beyond ours in
many ways, yet look at this
place.” He made a broad gesture.
“When we were let out this morn-
ing, it was clean and well ordered.
I’ve inspected dairies that were
far dirtier. Now it’s a hodge-podge
of scattered materials, upset stacks
of gear, tipped-over instruments.
What sort of mind can bear such
confusion?”

Watkins smiled. “The minds
that conceived — well, that verti-
cal maze, for instance — must be
orderly after a fashion, even
though it isn’t the human fash-
ion.”

“This is far from what I wanted
to say, though. Have you been
noticing the door?”

“There isn't much to notice.
It’s a sliding panel like our wall.”

“When one of the creatures
leaves, he passes his right hand

across what is evidently an elec-
tric eye beam, as nearly as 1 can
place it about ten or eleven feet
off the floor. That opens the door.”

“Good going, Cal!” said Wat-
kins. “I hadn't seen ’em do it.”

“Our try for escape should be
made as soon as possible,” went on
Calvin in a low voice. “As we’ve
talked about, the object of these
tests and experiments may be to
infect us with neuroses — ” Wat-
kins grinned again — “I know
my phrasing isn’t right,” said Cal-
vin stiffly, “but I never looked
into such matters. There’s also
Summersby's suggestion about the
fate of guinea pigs. So l think
we’d better try to get out right
away.”

“With five of them here?”

“If we have any luck, we may
find an opportunity, yes. Occa-
sionally they get absorbed in
something, and that door makes
no noise.”

Watkins looked at his briefcase
uncertainly. “Okay,” he said fi-
nally. “ May as well try it. Though
God knows where we are when we
do get out of the lab.”

Calvin congratulated himself on
his choice of an ally. “Good man,”
he said.

In the next hour they managed
to build a crude platform beside
the door, of various boxlike things,
nondescript plastic blocks and
impedimenta. The giants didn’t
even look at them. They were, in-

118

AMAZING STORIES

deed, a strange race. Now the plat-
form was high enough so that
Calvin felt he could reach the
Opening ray.

Summersby wandered over.
“What are you doing?’’ he asked,
seeming to force out the question
from politeness, not curiosity.

“We’re going to make a break,
1 lighpockets,” said Watkins.
“Want to help?’’

“They won’t let you,’’ said the
big man.

“We can try, can’t we?” asked
Watkins hotly.

"It’s your neck” ’

“ Listen, you may be the size of
a water buffalo, but if Cal and
Adam and I piled on you, you’d
go down all right. Why don’t you
cooperate?”

Summersby stared at him a
moment and Calvin thought he
was going to say something, some-
thing that would be important;
but he shrugged and went across
the hall and into the prison box.

“What’s eating that big bas-
tard, anyway?” said Watkins.

Calvin believed he knew, but it
was not his secret; it was Sum-
mersby’s. He said nothing.

“Watch it,” said Watkins.
“They’re coming.” The two men
scurried behind their rampart.
The five giants marched, flat-
footed, down the hall, their thick
arms swinging. The cfoor opened
and all of them went out. It closed
behind them.

“How about that!” said Wat-

kins exultantly, a grin on his face.

“I’ll get Mrs. Full and the
others," said Calvin. He felt a
tingle of rising excitement. “Get
up there and be ready to open it.
We’ll give them five minutes and
then make our break.”

“Right.” Watkins was already
clambering up the boxes and
blocks.

Calvin almost ran to his wife.
She was standing in front of the
color organ. “Dear,” he said, and
halted.

“Yes, what is it, Calvin?”

“ I don’t know. I was going to
say — ”

A sluggishness was pervading
his body, a terrible lassitude crept
through his brain. What was it?
What was happening?

“ 1 was going to — ”

He caught her as she slumped,
but could not hold up her weight,
and sank to the floor beside her.
His eyes blinked a couple of times.
Then knowledge and sensation
vanished together.

VII

Tom Watkins awoke slowly.
He had a cramp in one arm from
sleeping on it, but otherwise he
was conscious of a comfortable,
healthy feeling, which told him
he’d slept well and long. He
stretched and brushed a, few pieces
of straw from his face.

Straw?

He suddenly remembered sit-
119

TIIE ENORMOUS ROOM

ting down on their platform, very
sleepy and worried because of the
abruptness of it.

He sat up. Summersby Jiad just
stood, yawning. “Did you carry
me in here?” he asked the big
man.

“ 1 was going to ask you that.”

“Christ! What happened?” He
was wholly awake now. “ Did you
drop off out in the lab?”

“Yeah.”

“So’d 1.” said Adam. He was
sitting next to the Mexican, whom
he now pushed gently. “You
okay, Porfirio?"

Villa eruped with a grunt. The
Fulls were looking at each other
owlishly.

And then it hit him. Watkins
twisted, cased the floor, and saw
nothing but straw and fountain
and tree trunks. He was literally
staggered, and nearly lost his
balance.

His briefcase was gone!

He stared about wildly, panic
lifting in him like a swiff debili-
tating disease. Then he took four
fast steps and grabbed Summersby
by the coat. It was queer, but he
didn’t even think of anyone else
having taken it. Summersby tow-
ered over him. but he could be
brought down.

“Okay, you skyscraper,” said
Watkins, “where'd you put it?”

“Put what?”

“My case! Where is it?”

“ I never touched your damned
case.”

Well. Watkins could smell hon-
esty, and here it was. That startled
amazement was genuine. He glared
at Adam Pierce, Villa, the Fulls.
Not that last pair, surely! As
rock-ribbed and staunchly honest
as their New England coasts, and
about a9 imaginative. Not the
colored boy, either, a good kid;
and he didn’t think it was Villa.

“We must have been carried in
here by the scientists," said Adam
rationally. “Maybe they left it
outside.”

That was logical. But he’d had a
death-grip on the handle when he
fell asleep, just as he always did.
He looked at them all again. Ho
went from wall to wall, kicking
the straw. Then he scowled at the
sand box, the only place a thing
that size could be stashed away.
He was suddenly on his knees,
tossing sand left and right.

Avoiding certain places, he
checked the pile. Nothing! Not a
scrap of leather or a piece of green
paper!

“ If you are through," said Villa
heavily, “I wish to use the box.”

“Go ahead. Viva.” Watkins
walked across the room, groping
for a cigarette, then remembering
he had none left. “What hap-
pened out there?” he asked loudly.
“Were we doped? Something in
the chickens?"

“ We were awake for a long time
after we ate,” said Adam. “Not
even these people could make a
drug act on six of us in the same

120

AMAZING STORIES

minute, after that long; too many
differences in metabolism. If that’s
the word I want.”

“They weren’t even in the room
when we dropped off,” said Mrs.
Full.

That was a tip-off. Watkins
momentarily forgot his great loss.
“They left, and in a minute, we
were asleep. They must have
pumped some sort of gas into the
lab. Sleep gas.”

“Is there such a thing?” asked
Cal. “An anesthetic vapor that
would permeate such a large place
so quickly?”

“ Is there such a thing as a four
dimensional maze?” asked Adam
shortly.

Watkins grinned. He wasn’t the
only one who needed his morning
coffee.

Then he thought of his briefcase
again. He tried to push the moving
wall to one side ; no go. He got mad
again. “ It’s no good to them,” he
said. “What do they want with
it?”

“It couldn't have been so im-
portant that — ” began Full.

“Important?” Watkins was
yelling now, and although he dis-
liked raising his voice and making
scenes, he did it now, with furious
pleasure. “Cal, you never saw
anything more important in your
life than that case, and I don’t
care how many blue-ribboned
cows you’ve gaped at!”

“What was in it?” asked Villa.

“Money, goddammit, money!”
It didn’t matter if his secret came
out now. In this insane place, God
knew where, the cautious habits
of half a lifetime slid away. “The
best haul I’d made this year. The
contents of the safe of Roscoe &
Bates, that’s what was in it!
Better than twenty-two thousand
in good, green cash!”

"The contents of a safe?” Cal-
vin Full frowned. “You mean
you were a messenger, taking it
somewhere, and got on that roller
coaster with — ”

Adam Pierce laughed abruptly.
“No, he wasn’t a messenger,” he
said. “He wasn’t any messenger.
He’s a safe-cracker. Mr. Watkins,
what good do you think it’d do
you in here?”

“We’ll get back.”

“You’re a safe-cracker?” asked
Mrs. Full, her pale face lengthen-
ing with horror, disgust, and fear.
“A criminal?”

“In a manner of speaking,
ma’am,” said Tom Watkins, “I
am.”

“I’ll be hanged,” said Sum-
mersby. “And you accused me of
stealing your loot. I ought to
butter you all over the wall.”

“You try it, you overgrown
galoot. I didn't do a hitch in the
Philippines for nothing.” Watkins
smoothed back his hair, which
was dangling into his eyes. “Sure,
I’m a safe man. Don’t worry, Mrs.
Full, that doesn’t mean I’m a
thug.” She looked scared.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

121

“That's right,*' said Adam, still
chuckling. “This boy’s the aris-
tocracy of crime, You don’t have
to worry about your purse. He
only plays around with big stuff.”

Tom flipped him a grin. “ I’ll
bet you even know why I was on
the coaster.”

“Sure. You were hiding out.”

“That’s it. If I kept out of sight
till dark I was okay. They were
out for me, because my touch is
known ; but wlio’d think of check-
ing an amusement park?” He
turned as Cal made a noise in his
throat. The Vermonter was a
study in outraged sensibilities.

“You — you swine,” he said, a
typical Victorian hero facing the
mustache-twisting villain. “You
stole that money — ”

“My morals and your morals,
Cal,” said Watkins as genially as
he could, “are probably divergent,
but. it doesn’t make a whale of a
difference now. does it?”

Full turned to his wife and
began to mutter to her.

Villa said, “I don’t like crooks,
I run a respectable stand and I
am an honest man,” and scratch-
ing his hand where the healed
burn was, he turned away like-
wise. Summersbv was sitting on
the tire, and only Adam looked
sympathetic. The boy wasn’t
crooked, that was plain, but Wat-
kins had the glamor that a big-
time thief has for the young, the
fake aura of Robin-Hoodism.

He shook his head. He’d had to
spill it. For a while they’d trusted
him and now he was a pariah.

The food panel opened and
something plumped in. Watkins
glanced at his chronograph. Ten
o’clock Saturday. He went over
to the food.

It was a big, glossy chocolate-
brown vulture with a blue head.

“Well,” said Adam. “Well,
now, I don't know.”

“They pulled a boner this
time,” said Watkins. "Unless it’s
part of the conditioning.”

Villa picked it up. “It weighs
many pounds. It’s warm, just
killed. 1 don’t want any of it.”
He dropped it on the straw.
“With my spices, perhaps; but
not cooked on that grill, without
sauce and spice. Aargh!”

Watkins thought, Amen to
that. He rubbed the sandy bristles
on his chin. No razor or soap
here. It dawned on him that he
was thirsty, and he went to the
fountain. As it always did when
he bent over to drink, the curious
web of silver strands in the corner
caught his eye. There were so
many puzzles about this damned
lab that he despaired of ever
solving all of them.

After fifteen minutes, the wall
opened. They went out, Villa
carrying the vulture. He flung it
at the feet of the chief scientist,
who was there with two asso-
ciates.

“No!” he bellowed up at it.

122

AMAZING STORIES

“We, do not eat this!” He articu-
lated slowly, clearly, as though
to a foreigner with a slim knowl-
edge of' English. It picked up the
great bird and regarded it closely,
then without warning threw it at
one of the other giants.

The vulture caught it on the
side of the head and knocked it
off balance; falling to its knees,
it bleated out an angry sound
and dived for the boss’ legs. They
went down together in a gargan-
tuan scrimmage that made the
humans dance backward to avoid
being smashed bv the thick swing-
ing arms.

Tom Watkins walked off, un-
impeded, to look for his briefcase.
It was nowhere in the lab. He
cursed bitterly. Twefity-two
grand, up the spout.

The head scientist, having chas-
tised the other, left the room;
Watkins had a glimpse of another
fully as large, with something like
a big table therein. Shortly the
creature returned, carrying in one
arm a load of wood chips, and in
the other a bulgy, leathery thing
that turned out to be a partially
stunned octopus, still dripping the
waters of an unknown ocean.

They killed it, rebuilt their grill
(larger this time), and cut up the
octopus and cooked and ate it.
It wasn’t as bad as Watkins had
feared.

After a dragging day, they were
locked into their box — no one
had a chance to gimmick the wall,

for the giants were watching them
closely — and shortly afterward a
load of raw vegetables was dumped
in.

Watkins paced the floor after
he had eaten, waiting for the sleep
gas, determined to combat it if
he could. When the drowsiness
came, he walked faster. It didn’t
do any good. He knew he was
sinking to the floor. Powerful
stuff, he said to himself, very
powerful st —

Mrs. Full kept close to Calvin
all through Sunday. They had
been here since Thursday, all
these men without women, and
she knew there were men who
had to have women frequently or
they became vicious and could
not be stopped by any thought of
consequences. The Mexican
seemed all right, but you never
knew with a person from a Latin
country.

Another facet of the same prob-
lem was the fact that she and
Calvin were supposed to be on
their honeymoon. She faced it:
she was frustrated. She wanted a
honeymoon, no matter what sorl
of prison they were in. So after
their first meal on Sunday, she
asked Calvin to fix up a private
apartment in their prison.

With various materials, plastic
blocks and the different sizes of
slabs, and some screens of trans-
lucent fabric she had dug up in
a corner, he made a walled-off

THE f'.-MORMOUS ROOM

123

compartment just large enough
for two.

Then one of the scientists
looked in, saw what he was doing,
and promptly knocked it down.

Adam, who had been helping in
the latter stages, squinted at the
ceiling of the box. “You know,
Mrs. Full, I think they can see us
through that. If it’s opaque to us,
it still might be transparent to
them; like a mirror, I mean, I've
seen them at home, mirror on one
side, window from the other.
That’d explain the light we get
in here. And if they want to ob-
serve us all the time, then this
private cell of yours would make
’em mad.”

“But it had no roof,” she ob-
jected.

“That’s right.” He shook his
head. “Another theory gone poof.”

“I’ll build it again,” said Cal-
vin stubbornly, and did so. This
time the giants left it alone. He
and Adam made a screen for the
sand box too, and built a perma-
nent grill on one side of the box.

VIII

By Tuesday they were all in a
state of anxiety and scarcely-
contained rage. Their surveil-
lance was casual, often non-ex-
istent, yet not once had they been
able to block the wall of their
prison or open the great door of
the laboratory. Circumstances,
chance, fate, whatever you wanted

to call it, something had stopped
them every time.

There were three giants in the
lab today. Sometimes there would
be one of them, sometimes as
many as five; but always there
would be the one who had first
removed them from the box, who
seemed to be the head scientist,
giving orders, bullying the others
in the queer emotional way of
these creatures. Today there were
three. As usual, when they had let
the humans out, the lab was clean
and orderly. The sloppy scientists
had very efficient janitors, thought
Adam. By this time the place was
a shambles.

Out in the lab, there rose the
honking sound of pain and anger
— some of the noises they made,
especially the commands, were
recognizable now to the people —
and a sharp slap. Then Mrs. Full
hurried into the box, carrying a
number of two-foot-square slabs
under her arm.

“What happened, ma’am?”

“Hello, Adam. The criminal
Watkins played a few bars of a
real song on that device, and the
brutes hit him.” She laid down the
slabs.. “Our harmonies enrage
them, I think perhaps cause them
actual pain. They held the sides
of their heads where ears ought to
be, and shook themselves and
made those hideous noises.”

“They hit me when I sang the
other day,” said Adam, “remem-
ber?”

124

AMAZING STORIES

“That’s right. Look here.” She
sat down, pulled one of the thick
slabs onto her lap. “ I found these
under a shelf out there. One of
the creatures knocked them off
and I picked them up. I wondered
why they had been up there, when
so many stacks of them just sit
around on the floor. ”

“I never saw any like these,
ma’am. They have that little
ridge on the. edge there, and the
border of different colored stuff
around ’em.”

“Watch what happens when I
push the ridge upward, Adam.
It’s like an. automatic button.”
She pressed it and the slab, at
first gay orange, turned pale blue ;
on it appeared three lines of
squiggly characters, like a cross
between Arabic writing and Egyp-
tian hieroglyphics.

“A magic slate,” said Adam.
“That’s neat!”

“You haven’t seen anything
yet,” she told him, and pushed
the ridge again. The writing dis-
appeared, and out of the slab
leered a bull gorilla, paws on chest,
eyeing Adam with beady, ridge-
browed malevolence. It took a
second for sanity to convince him
that it was only a picture: three-
dimensional, on a two-dimen-
sional sheet of plastic, but so real
he half-expected the beast to
charge out at him. “What about
that?” she asked.

He hit his thigh with a fist. It

was a photograph, he imagined,
but made by an illusory process so
far ahead of anything humanity
could produce that it seemed he
might glimpse whatever was be-
hind the gorilla if he put his eyes
down to the side of the slate.
“Gosh!” he said, feeling it a little
naive but afraid to swear in
front of her. “Isn’t that some-
thing!”

“It’s a book,” she said, “an
album of photographs. Look here.”

The next picture was an equally
miraculous one of half a dozen
monkeys sitting on a tree trunk.
Adam looked at it, then at the
farthest trunk in their box of a
room. Undeniably it was the
same one.

Under the picture was a line of
squiggles that probably spelled out
the scientists’ equivalent of “mon-
keys.”

“They were here, in this place,”
said Adam. “The giants must
have experimented on them too.”
He turned his eyes up to the
woman and saw that she was
white and drawn. “What hap-
pened to them?” he asked. “There
aren’t any monkeys here now.”

“Exactly,” she said. She put
on the next picture, and after a
moment the next.

Dogs greeted his eyes, so real
he could almost hear them pant;
a cow gazed stolidly at him; a
cheetah sat on a mound of straw
with clown’s head cocked inquisi-
tively; two cockatoos perched in

THU ENORMOUS ROOM

125

rigid still life on the silver rod of
the prison box.

“What happened to them?”
he asked again.

“The experiments ended,” she
said.

Then there flashed out a thing
like a blue sponge with legs, a
thing which sat in the cat’s-cradle
they had speculated so much
about. From its center two ruby
eyes blazed with three-dimen-
sional fire. That never came from
Earth ! Mars or Venus could have
produced it, maybe, or a planet
so far from Earth that it bore no
name. He said as much, his voice
quavering.

She stared at him. Moistening
her lips, she said, “If that was
here, in this box, then where are
we?"

He shook his head. He could
not even guess. “What’s next?”

The last picture in the slate
was a group portrait of himself,
the Fulls, Summersby, Watkins,
and Porfirio Villa.

When was that taken? They
were sitting in a circle on the
straw, eating something. Peering
closely, he thought it must be
the vegetables, for there was a
small heap of round things next to
Calvin Full which were probably
buckeyes. Sunday night, then.

“They must have taken it
through the food panel,” he said.
“Are there any more pictures?”

“That’s all. I don’t know
what’s in the other ones yet.”

Calvin came in. She handed
him the first “book” and showed
him how to operate it. He flipped
through it and when he came to
the monstrosity in the web his
eyes widened. “What is it?” he
asked, in the hard twang of his
region.

“A guinea pig, like all the oth-
ers including us,” his wife said.

“The tree trunks are explained
now,” said Adam, half to himself.
“The sand box, too. That isn’t
a very scientific-looking treatise,
but 1 guess it’s more of a memen-
to, a record of us all.” He raised
his brows in a facial shrug. “Us
and the monkeys,” he said.
“Gosh!”

She took the next big slate on
her lap. It was lavender. The
first few pages to appear were
covered with the curious writing,
very large and only a few words
to a page. Then came pictures of
many things, not photographs
but drawings and paintings in
vivid color, and the things could
in no way be linked to science.
There were portraits of the tall
creatures themselves, in various
settings, some in labs like this
one, some outdoors in a landscape
that was predominantly scarlet
and green ; there were group scenes
in which they ate odd-looking
foods and w'alked down blue path-
ways and examined strange pets
and familiar animals. Under each
picture was a short grouping of

126

AMAZING STORIES

squiggles, marks, scribbles, etc.

“Can that be a science book?’’
asked Cal, leaning over his wife’s
shoulder. The beings were pic-
tured as simply as possible, in
no. minute detail whatever, and
their activities were of the dullest
and most prosaic sort.

This pattern was followed
through page after page - — a pic-
ture (some of them were of things
so alien they could not be placed
by either the Fulls or himself),
a single character, then a short
word and another, long or short
as the case might be. After a
dozen of them had flashed on and
off Adam noticed that the large
character was always repeated at
the beginning of the last word.

When he realized what it
meant, the whole business clicked
into focus. The whole damned
deal, the lab and the scientists
and the experiments and the
meaning of the four magic slates,
and everything. There was no
particular reason why this last
slate should have done it, for it
was no more suggestive than
many other things that he had
seen; it was simply the last piece
of evidence, the final push that
sent him headlong into terrible
knowledge.

Carefully, desperately, he went
over it all in his mind, while the
Fulls spoke in low tones.

God, he thought, oh, God! He
was shivering now. He was more
terrified than he had ever been

before. His tongue felt thick.

The punishments, the high
stool and the arbitrary cuffs and
swats; the gadgets, the mazes,
the puzzles; were they all a part
of the conditioning to neurosis of
a scientific experiment? They
were not.

Adam had found an answer,
the only possible answer. The
fourth slate had given it to him,
although a hundred hints of it
had shown up every day. His
psych teacher would be ashamed
of him for muddling along so
many days, believing in a theory
that was so plainly impossible.

He addressed Mrs. Full. She
was a little sharper than her hus-
band, and this was more in her
line, too. He had to. make her
discover the same answer. He
had to know it was right. And then
he had to get out of that place in
a hell of a hurry.

“Ma’am, you know what this
is?”

“No, Adam."

“Look here. See this big letter,
repeated at the first of this word? ”

“Yes.”

He flipped a few “pages” past.
“It’s the same with all of them,
you see? And the middle word
is always the same — - four curly
letters. You know what that mid-
dle word is? ”

“.No, Adam."

“It’s ‘stands for’ or ‘means.* ”
He stared at her. “Get it?”

THIi ENORMOUS ROOM

127

She thought an instant. “Of
course. Adam, that’s very clever
of you.” She wasn’t scared yet.
She hadn't seen the implication.

“ ‘Stands for’?” Calvin re-
peated.

“A stands for Apple,” explained
Mrs. Full. “Or A stands for Air-
ship, or whatever it might be.
it’s an alphabet book, dear.”

She still hadn’t caught it. “Re-
member when Mr. Full built the
cubbyhole here,” Adam said,
“and the giant knocked it down?
Why was he angry?”

“I suppose they want to ob-
serve us without any hindrance.”

“No, ma’am,” he said with
conviction. “That was simple
frustration. They want to see
everything, whether it’s interest-
ing to them or not. They aren’t
scientifically disappointed if they
can’t, they’re just frustrated.
Think of the punishment we get,
slaps, the dunce stool.”

“As though we were children,”
she said.

“Exactly. Now, here are these
books. An alphabet book, and
these others. What age would you
figure them for? You taught kin-
dergarten, you said. This is some-
thing I wouldn’t know.”

“I’d say they’re for fairly bright
children about five or six years
old.”

“Or for us,” said her husband,
“when they start to teach us their
language.”

“They are children’s books,

though, with short sentences and
the gaudy pictures our own chil-
dren love.” Mrs. Full stared at
Adam. Her brown eyes widened.
“Adam,” she said, “you’ve guessed
something.”

“You guess it too,” he pleaded.
She had to corroborate his own
idea. “Think of all the things
about them we haven’t been able
to make out.”

“Nursery books ...” she said
slowly. “Instability to the point
of insanity, if you found it in adult
humans. Sloppiness and ineffi-
ciency, when these machines point
to a high degree of neatness of
mind. Wandering attention, in-
ability to concentrate for long
periods. Positive tantrums over
nothing. Cruelty and affection
mixed without rhyme or reason.”
She took him by the arm, her
fingers strong with fear and ur-
gency. “Tell me, Adam.”

His breath hissed. He was filled
with panic. Where there had been
only anxiety for his own life and
his world, there was now a fearful
knowledge that he could scarcely
bear without shrieking. She had
it too, but she didn’t dare say it.
It was a horrible thing.

“These machines,” he said,
“aren’t scientific testers at all.”

“Yes?”

“They’re toys.”

“Yes?”

“We aren’t guinea pigs. We’re
— we're pets. They’ve had other

128

AMAZING STORIES

animals,’ from Earth and from
God knows where, and now they
have people.”

‘‘Yes. Go on, say it.” She
thrust her face fiercely up to his.

“Those twelve-foot ‘scientists’
are kids,” he said. Then he stopped
and deliberately got his cracking
voice under control. She was just
as frightened as he was but she
wasn’t yelling. “It’s the only
answer. Everything fits it. They're
about five years old.”

Calvin Full frowned. “If that’s
true, we’re in trouble.”

“You’re damn right we’re in
trouble!"’ said Adam. “A kid
doesn’t take care of a pet like a
scientist takes care of a guinea
pig or a white rat. If it annoys
him, he’s liable to pick it up and
throw it at a wall ! I might get my
head torn off for singing, or you
could be dismembered for making
a mistake with one of those toys.”

“Some children tear the wings
off butterflies," said Mrs. Full.
She stood up. “ I'll go and tell the
others,” she said firmly. “It
doesn’t seem to me that we have
much time left.”

“If we start to bore them — ”
began Adam, and shut up.

She went out. In about five
minutes everyone had come into
the box but Watkins, who was
playing the color organ. They dis-
cussed the discovery in low voices,
as though the alien children might
be listening; Villa and Summersby
examined the slates. After a while

Watkins was pushed in, looking
rather worn and frayed. Adam
was standing in the far corner
under the silver web. He saw the
wall, start to slide shut, remem-
bered his dowel, and tried to see
if it was still in place at the l>ottom
of the wall.

He couldn’t see it. Maybe it
blended with the color behind it,
or maybe somebody had acci-
dentally kicked it out of place.

The wall slid shut.

Summersby was losing the sense
of being apart, of having no
problems no matter what hap-
pened. These people had drawn
him into their trouble against his
will; the situation was so bad that
he could no longer tell himself he
didn’t give a damn. So he had
a bad heart! He couldn’t turn his
back on these poor devils because
of that. It was stupid and selfish.
He felt sorry for them. He was
uncomfortable with them, as he
always was with standard-sized
people, and he would still repel
any attempt on their part to get
close to him; but: he was a little
chastened by what he had been
through. He recognized that.

It was all very well to say he
didn't care where he died, but it
would be a hell of a lot more
dignified to accomplish it as a free
man, rather than as a harried rab-
bit. Even if he were killed trying

THF. ENORMOUS ROOM

129

to escape, it would be endurable.
But if his heart gave out while he
was, say, trundling up and down
the nursery in that ridiculous
little auto thing, he knew his last
breath would be a bitter one.

Adam had just said, “1 laid a
rod across the sill there.” Sum-
mersby walked to the wall, which
appeared to be closed as usual.
Just as he came to it, he caught
the sheen of metal in a thin line
up the corner, and knew that he
was seeing part of one of the
machines in the nursery. The
dowel had held the door.

Something moved outside; he
could hear the dull slap of im-
mense flat feet. They were going
to be fed. He strolled away from
the corner, saying quietly, “It
worked, Adam. Don’t check it
now, though.”

The small panel opened and one
of the garishly hued platters was
put in, loaded with a wriggling,
seething mass of grubs and half-
dead locusts.

“Supper?” cried Villa. “This
is supper? Do they think we are
a lot of African natives?”

“Well,” said Adam, “I guess
they were fooled by me.” ft was
the first time he had made any
sort of joke about his color. Pos-
sibly, thought Summersby, he’s
becoming one of the group, as I
am. God knows the kid has as
much reason to be bitter about
people as I have; or more reason.
It’s put him on the defensive.

Summersby felt more chastened
than ever.

No one cared to sample the in-
sects. They walked away from the
platter and hoped aloud that their
captors would see the refusal and
give them something else, but
nothing was pushed in. After a
quarter of an hour Watkins said,
“Think it’s safe to have a try at
the door?”

“No,” said Summersby.

Watkins jumped to his feet.
“Listen, I've had all I can stom-
ach of you!” he yelled. “If you
don’t want to help, okay, but
keep your nose — ”

“ I was going to say that they'll
be pumping in the sleep gas pretty
soon, and we don’t know whether
they do it from outside the nurs-
ery or outside this box.”

“That’s right,” said- Calvin
Full.

Watkins eyed him a moment.
“I’m sorry, Summersby, ” he said
then. “I shot off my mouth too
quick. ”

“They filled the nursery with
it once,” sent on Summersby,
“but it seems logical to think they
could also let it into this room
alone. Maybe it works on them,
maybe not; if it does, then they
wouldn’t flood the nursery with it
every night, because the adults
have to come in and clean the
place up. ”

“A clever thought, Mr. Sum-
mersby,’’ said the woman.

-130

AMAZING STORIES

“Not particularly. At any rate,
I’m going to stand by the crack
and try to get enough air to stay
awake; then when I think the
coast’s clear, I’ll shove the door
open and scout around. If I find
a way out, I’ll come back and
drag you into the nursery and
wake you. ”

“Why are you doing this?”
asked Villa suspiciously. “ No, Mr.
Big Man, I don’t like you going
out alone. I think you wouldn’t
come back. You don’t like us.”

Watkins, evidently on edge
from his mauling by the children,
whirled on the Mexican. “Oh,
shut your yap! The guy’s doing
you a favor.” Then he said to
Summersby, “I’ll come along.”

Summersby grinned wryly.

“I’m not saying you’d run out
on us, man.” Watkins made the
motions of going through his
pockets for a cigarette, which
some of them still did occasionally
out of hopeful habit. “ I know
locks and I might be able to help
if you ran into trouble. ”

“Come on along, then.” He
put an eye to the thin slit. “Here
comes one of them. It’s the head
scientist.” He grinned. “Or the
kid who owns us, who lives in this
house and invites his little pals
in every day to play with his toys
and his pets. ”

The monster disappeared. Pres-
ently Watkins said, “It’s in. I’m
sleepy. ”

Summersby stretched as tall
as he could and put his mouth to
the crack, trying to breathe only
what air came through from the
nursery. He saw the enormous
child pass on its way to the door,
and shortly the sound of its heavy
feet stopped. He felt drowsy, his
eyelids flickered. He beat his
hands together, sucking in air from
the opening. Villa started to
snore.

Watkins said, “I’m about done,
Summersby. ” He was kneeling
at the crack below Summersby,
and his voice was sluggish. In a
few seconds he rolled over on the
straw.

When did the adults come in to
clean up? Summersby didn't dare
wait much longer. He was figh ting
sleep with all his vigor. Possibly
they wouldn’t come till morning.

He had to chance it. He forced
his fingers into the gap and
heaved. The wall didn’t move.
Holding his breath, he propped
one foot against the adjoining
wall, dug his hands as far into the
breach as possible, and hurled
himself backward. The big door
jolted an inch, hung, then slid
back a couple of feet. He swung
around and jammed himself
through the aperture and the wall
moved silently back into place;
this time the dowel was not
there, and when the wall stopped,
there was no crack at the corner.
Summersby must have kicked the
dowel aside when he slid through.

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

131

Watkins was inside, asleep.

He breathed deeply, and the
effects of the sleep gas died, so
that he was wide awake and felt
very excited and eager. To an-
alyze the reasons for his eagerness
would have killed it, and besides
he was in a hurry. He ran to the
great door of the playroom, whose
lintel towered twenty feet from
the floor. Hastily he tossed ap-
paratus, boxes, toy blocks, until
he had made a pile five feet high.

Scrambling up this, the things
sliding under his feet, he waved
an arm above his head in the place
where he believed, the electric eye
beam to be. Then the pile col-
lapsed, and he fell into it, giving-
one knee a terrific crack and skin-
ning his knuckles. The door glided
open.

The next room was deserted,
and the soft bluish light was dim-
mer here than in the nursery.
This place was far less cluttered,
containing no more than a big
yellow machine, a gigantic table,
and two six-legged chairs. There
was a picture on the wall, the size
of a barn's side, which he did not
stop to look at.

The opposite door was open.
The third room was a dining hall,
with two tables and a number of
chairs, these of metal with eight
legs each. Luckily, there was no
one in it.

In the next room — all four-
were in a straight line, and he

thought, Either it's a long narrow
house, or else it’s as big as Rocke-
feller Center — there were a num-
ber of gadgets, colorful and com-
plex like the children’s toys, but
of different construction. He
gl&nced at them but did not pause
until he came to the next door.

It was closed. He presumed its
opener beam would be in the same
place as that of the playroom, and
looked around for something to
stand on.

There seemed to be nothing
small enough to move. He shoved
at a couple of things, but they
wouldn’t budge. The only slim
possibility was a big square brown
box, set twelve feet off the floor
on one of their mammoth tables.
It was of a size to accommodate
half a dozen cows, but looked as
though it might be of flimsy
enough materials, plastic prob-
ably, to push off the edge, from
which it would fall exactly where
he needed it.

He dragged a chair over,
climbed up on its seat and then
onto the table. He saw at once
that the box would be immov-
able. There was an affair that
might be a dynamotor attached
to one side, various objects stick-
ing out of the other, and four
stacks of thick coils on top. He
was turning away, hoping to find
another door in one of the first
rooms, when his eye was attracted
to a square plate among the
things on the right side of the box.

132

AMAZING STORIES

1'he plate was glass, for its surface
shone under the blue light, and he
thought he saw the pinpoint
twinkling of stars in it.

On a hunch, he walked over to
it. He knew quite a lot of astron-
omy and if this happened to be a
telescope, he might be able to
determine their location.

The field of the plate was full of
stars, but in patterns he had
never seen. He could not under-
stand it. It was not a painting,
for the stars twinkled. Where the
blazes was the thing focused?

A huge dial beside the plate had
a pointer and scores of notches,
each labeled with a couple of
squiggly characters. He turned
the pointer experimentally. The
screen blurred, showed a planet
with rings: Saturn.

“Neat,” he said to himself, and
turned the pointer another notch.
He got a view of a landscape,
trees of olive green and crimson,
seen from above. He tried other
notches.

Finally, just as he had reminded
himself that he had to hurry, he
saw a familiar globe swim onto
the glass. It was Earth, with the
two Americas clearly defined.

What in hell . . . ?

He pushed the pointer on, and
was given another landscape, this
time of prosaic hue, a meadow
with a cow in it. He clicked the
thing another notch and got a
constellation pattern again. He
pushed it back to the cow.

He felt his heart thudding fast,
too fast ; and he hoped with all his
faculties that he wouldn’t conk
out before he had solved this rid-
dle. There were other dials, other
pointers, a little behind the first.
He turned one slowly.

The cow grew larger until it al-
most filled the screen. Only when
he could see nothing but its broad
placid back did he realize that he
was looking at this scene, as at
the others, from about.

He tried a third pointer. The
land whipped by beneath his gaze.
He came to a city, the buildings
reaching up to him in a wonderful
illusion of depth.

Then it dawned on him what
the machine was, and he gasped.

There was no use in looking for
the outer door. He had found the
answer to their last problem, and
he had to get back to the box with
that answer and thrash it out
with all of them. There might be
a salvation for them and there
might not.

Leaving the screen showing the
city, he jumped down off the
table, raced back through the
room and into the next, the dining
hall. Still there were no signs of
any of the giants. He had crossed
the threshold of the third room
when he heard a door open on his
right. There was no time to gape
around; he covered thirty feet in
five strides, dodged under the
hanging shelf of the strange

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

133

yellow machine, like a low desk
covered .with cogwheels, and ran
along beneath it till he came to the
extreme end of the contrivance.

A pair of feet, either of which
would have outweighed a draft
horse,. went past him; he dared
not lean forward to see the rest of
the brute, but it was undoubtedly
an adult. It went into the play-
room.

After twenty or twenty-five
minutes, during which Summersby
thought ovCr the problem and
agreed with himself that he
couldn’t find the solution alone,
the giant came out of the play-

room, crossed near his hiding
place, and went out through a
door beside the huge picture. It
was not in a hurry, so he decided
it had not noticed his absence
from the box.

He dragged an easy chair over
to the nursery door. It was just
four times the size of Summersby 's
Morris chair at home, and about
eight times as heavy. As he was
crawling up the leg to the seat, he
recalled that he had a bad heart.
If he hadn’t been clinging to the
plastic with both arms, he would
have shrugged.

He intercepted the beam and

"Even if it works — it's still obsolete!"

134

opened the door. Having no more
than half a minute to get through
before it shut, he had to leave the
chair where it was. He hoped none
of the adults would realize that
its position had changed.

The playroom was clean and
neat. Likely it would remain un-
visited through the night. He
went to the box and only then
remembered it was shut tight.
What did the kids do when they
opened it during the day? He had
seen them at it twice. They laid
their hands on top of the box,
there on the left.

Hauling over enough junk to
make a pair of steps, he got onto
the roof of the box. There was a
bar, set into the coaming. He
pressed it, leaned over, and saw
the wall slide back. A second push
returned it to its shut position.
He. opened it again, swung his legs
over the edge, pressed the bar
once more and dropped. Snatch-
ing up a green dowel from the
floor, he jumped into the box as
the door was closing. He had just
time to lay the rod across the
threshold, as Adam had done, be-
fore the wall reached it and was
held.

Trying not to breathe, Sum-
mcrsby picked up Watkins and
slung him over his shoulder. He
forced his finggrs into the crack
and heaved. Again he threw his
weight against the wall.

Then he was buckling at the
knees, trying desperately to bring

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

his mouth next to the opening,
but not quite making it.

“Describe it again,” said Wat-
kins. “Give me all the details you
can think of. ”

As Summersby went over what
he remembered of the brown rna-
chine, Watkins tried to envisage
it. A tough job, and he might not
be able to handle it. To reverse a
thing like that — when there’d
be at least one or two principles
he’d never heard of — well, that
would be the job of a lifetime.

“How do you know that it’s
the instrument that brought us
here?” he asked.

“It must be.” Summersby
looked intent, almost eager. “It
has those dials that focus it almost
pin-point on any planet they
want; at least, I saw quite a few
planets, from a distance and close
up. 1 saw a cow and a city on
Earth. Then there’s the big brown
box. It’s hollow — the door was
half open. If they bring things,
living things, from other planets,
they need a receiving station
large enough to take ’em. The
box. It’s logical.”

“It sure is.” Adam whistled.
“So we’re on another planet.
That was plain, if we'd thought
about it seriously. No place on
Earth could hide a race like this.
Not with all the factories they
must have to produce the toys
and what you saw out there.”

“Why couldn’t we be inside the

135

Earth?” asked Mrs. Full stri-
dently.

Watkins said, “He looked down
on Earth. That argues another
planet. ”

“But how did they get us
here? In two days?”

Watkins scratched his bristled
chin and thought aloud. “It
must have been instantaneous.
Remember, we went through a
quarantine and were healed of
just about everything that was
wrong with us. That must have
taken a while. ”

“The octopus was still wet,”
said Adam, “and the grubs and
locusts were still kicking. They
must focus that rig on Earth and
push a button and here it is, like
that. Instant transmission of mat-
ter. ” He smiled weakly, as though
he were proud of the phrase. He
looked very frightened, thought
Watkins, and unhappy.

Tom Watkins was scared, too,
but not especially unhappy. For
the first time in almost twenty
years, he was free of worry about
the bulls, the law. He only wished
he knew what had happened to
his loot.

“The planet,” said Cal, “what-
ever its name is, must have the
same gravity and atmosphere as
Earth. Same water, too.”

“That's right. So it’s produced
a race of critters with plenty of
human characteristics, ” said Wat-
kins.

“Have they done this before?”

asked Mrs. Full. “ I mean do 3 011
think we’re the first to be snatched
up? ”

“No, I don’t,” said Watkins,
surprised that she was talking
directly to him. “ People disappear
all the time. Look at the famous
ones: Judge Crater, Ambrose
Bierce — ”

“Somebody mention the Marie
Celeste," growled Summersby.

The wall began to open.

“Here’s the plan, quick,” said
Watkins. “I’ve got to get out and
find the machine, and see if I can
gimmick it so it’ll work backward,
send us home. The rest of- you
create a diversion, keep the kids'
minds off me. ”

“What kind of a diversion?”
asked Villa. His abstracted face
showed plainly that he was think-
ing of his chili stand and what he
would say to the idiot relief man
about conditions he would doubt-
less find therein.

“If you were a kid with pets,
intelligent ones, what would you
watch them do for hours? Some-
thing unordinary — something
you'd never imagine they’d do.”
He looked at his chronograph.
“It’s just ten. I never saw the
gadget I couldn’t figure out in
two hours; if I’m not back by
noon, you’d better come out,
Summersby. ”

“What if it’s four-dimen-
sional?” asked Adam.

“It’s possible I can cook up a

136

AMAZING STORIES

way to reverse its action anyway.
There are some principles of elec-
tricity and mechanics that must
be universal.”

“Shall we run the machines for
them?” asked Mrs. Full. “To
distract the children?”

“They’re used to that,” said
Watkins. “They bore easy. Sup-
pose you’re a kid with a normal
regard for pets. You’ve had cats
and dogs and rabbits and now you
have monkeys. The monkeys are
a lot smarter and more versatile,
but they have their limits too.
You get jaded with ’em. But one
day they — ” he snapped his
fingers — “they start playing sol-
diers! They drill, stage mock bat-
tles, die and come to life, scrim-
mage — hell, you go nuts! You
can’t take your eyes off ’em!”

“That’s it,’’ said Villa
promptly. “The children have
gorillas, cows, they have never
seen anything like war. ”

“Maybe they don’t know what
war is,” said Adam. “It might
just look as if we were fighting.
None of their toys show a sign of
war being ever waged by this race,
like our own kids’ toys do.”

“The toys of any people reflect
their civilization in an unreliable
and distorted way, ” said Cal Full
rather stuffily. “A visitor from
Mars in one of our playrooms
would conclude that we already
have spaceships and ray guns,
and that our usual clothing is
chaps, sombreros, and spacesuits.”

“They’ll get the idea, ” Watkins
said impatiently. The giant chil-
dren outside were bawling the
word that meant “Come!” He
was in a hurry. These fools were
always arguing. “Let’s go,” he
said. “The four of you line up
over there, catch the kids’ eyes,
and Highpockets can boost me up
to the beam. Then he’ll join you.”

Watkins grinned tightly,
slapped Adam on the shoulder,
poked Villa in the belly, and dived
behind the nearest many-colored
pile of gear the moment he saw
the children weren’t watching
him. As he went toward the door,
he heard Villa saying, “ My fourth
cousin Pancho was a great man
for war, so I will be general.
Spread out in the thin line and be
ready to march when 1 com-
mand. ”

Summersby followed Watkins,
and they came to the door. Wat-
kins managed to get up on the big
man’s shoulders, and waved a
hand above his head. Nothing
happened.

“Stand on them,” said Sum-
mersby.

He struggled to do so. “ Un, dos,
tres , ” roared the Mexican down
the hall. “Begin!”

This time Watkins found the
beam. The door glided aside. He
dropped off Summersby’s shoul-
ders, jumped into the next room.
A quick look showed him it was
empty. As the door closed he

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

137

heard Villa shouting hoarsely.

“Make bang noises for the
guns. Fall dead, spring to life.
We are mountain fighters of great
skill. Climb on machines, drop off
with bullets in your head, play
you are — ”

The door cut him off. Watkins
chuckled. “What a ham,” he
said. He started for the opposite
door.

It was ten minutes to twelve.
Summersby was panting like a
spent hound. He -had not exer-
cised in months, not since the
doctors had told him his heart was
just about, gone, and he was sur-
prised that he hadn’t keeled over
before now. Dashing around play-
ing guerrilla like some six-year-
old! It had been a damn good
idea, though. The giant children

— there were two of them today

— were still enthralled, lying on
their bellies with their furry'
watermelon heads propped in fan-
tastic two-thumbed hands.

Leaning against a pink plastic
maze wall, puffing, he thought,
I’ve almost grown to like them.
Why?

Because for the first time since
he was sixteen, John Summersby
had to bend his neck back to look
up at someone. These grotesque
humanoidal beings were the only
living things which did not make
him feel overgrown, uncouthly

out of proportion, a hulking lout.
If a chair was too narrow, for him,
it would be like the head of a pin
to one of these kids; if a fork felt
uncomfortably small in his own
hand, it would be a minik in in-
deed in one of those vast paws.

In their shadows, Summersby
was a very small man. It was an
unwonted sensation, the most sat-
isfying lie had ever experienced.

He looked at them out there, as
they lay watching Mrs. Full and
Adam mowing down Cal and
Villa with imaginary Brownings.
He grinned, felt his lips curve in
the unaccustomed grimace, and
thought with no particular bitter-
ness that he was getting mellow
in his last days. “Hello, High-
pockets,’’ he said softly to the kid
that owned him. “How’s the
weather up there?”

At five to noon the door opened.
Summersby, seeing its silent mo-
tion, left olT the mimic gunplay'
and started for the wall, where he
could intercept Watkins and find
out whether he’d been successful.
But the safe-cracker came running
down the middle of the room,
yelling.

“Come on, everybody!”

“ Come on?”

The two giant children were on
their feet, uncertain of what was
happening. Obviously they didn’t
realize Watkins had been out of
the room at all.

“The adults spotted me!”
roared the blond man, swinging

138

AMAZING STORIES

his briefcase wildly ; where had he
found that? “They're* after me!”

Summersby let out an involun-
tary grunt when through the
-twenty-foot door came an eighteen-
foot creature, a thing so mind-shak-
ingly huge that even the ranger’s
size complex wasn't pleased by it.
This was an adult: leaner in the
body, broader of hand and thicker
of limb, wearing trouserlike gar-
ments and a flaring jacket of
royal purple caught by a ruby
bar, it advanced calmly into the
hall, clumping flat-footed in three
yard strides. From its heavy-
lipped gash of a mouth came
noises like a whole orchestra badly
in need of tuning.

“Hwhrangg!” it cried, waving
its hands in the air. “Breemingg!”
It appeared to be soothing the
children, telling them that Daddy
was here.

Mrs. Full, on the control plat-
form, screamed. Her husband ran
to her, Summersby stepped out
irresolute, Adam stood stunned.
But Porfirio Villa, afire with the
heady make-believe carnage of
the afternoon, was as quick to act
as his fourth cousin Pancho could
have been. A dozen waddling
leaps, a swift swing of his legs over
the side, and the Mexican landed
in the little red vehicle with the
vast control board, the car that
only he had been able to master.
Pressing buttons, pulling plungers,
sliding levers, he whirled it around

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

and sent it at the towering adult.

The beast skipped out of his
way, blaring anger; he came about
sharply, gunned his “motor” —
if it was that — and rammed the
gigantean enemy on the leg.
There was the clear sharp snap of
bone breaking. As Villa’s car
overturned, the creature fell at
full length, with a crash like an
elephant dropping out of a tree.
It contracted its body and gripped
its ankle with both hands, honk-
ing dismally.

Summersby was running. He
skidded up to the groveling Villa,
yanked him to his feet and shoved
him out of range of the injured
beast. The two children had
broken into the barks that were
their equivalent of weeping, one
drawing its goading rod. Sum-
mersby crouched, went toward it,
hoping to bring it down before it
stunned him. As he came within
diving range, though, the orange
airship streaked over his head and
jammed its nose into the child’s
belly. It folded over with a
whoosh, grabbing its middle, as
the toy wobbled off in eccentric
flight.

Mrs. Full, the expert at flying
the miniature vessel, was hectic-
ally jamming her blocks along
their metal rods; something had
gone wrong with the mechanism
at the crash. Her husband hauled
her off the seat and rushed her
toward the door.

The remaining child stood in

139

the middle of the floor, staring at
its groaning, breathless playmate
and at the maimed adult, honking
a little frightened song to itself.
Skirting it, the humans made for
the door as fast as they could go.

Summersby overtook Watkins.
“I found it okay,” panted the
crook.

"Can you work it?” They were
through the door now, the two of
them in the lead, running across
the first of the rooms.

"There were other adults,”
said Watkins. "Three or four saw
me. I don’t know where they
went.”

" Can you work it? ”

"The matter transmitter?” He
grinned briefly. "Sure. There’s
two principles 1 don’t get, but — ”

The doorway before them was
crowded by several of the giants.
They came through, not hurrying,
talking rather placidly; their
movements had the swiftness of
the children’s without their jerki-
ness. In their hands were green
goads. They pointed and came
down upon the humans.

"Scatter!” yelled Summersby,
and dodged under the shelf of the
machine where he had taken cover
last night. He went to the end.
In seconds they would be peering
under the shelf, spotting him,
thrusting in their shockers and
laying him out. And, damn it all,
he cared! He didn’t want to be
stopped when so much of the fight
was won. His heart might stop,

he couldn’t help that, but till it
did he wanted to go on fighting.
Balling his fists, he started to
leave the sanctuary. Then he
heard Adam Pierce begin to sing.

He had a high tenor voice, mel-
low with a sweet touch of huski-
ness in it, and he was singing
“Drink to Me Only” at the top
of his lungs.

He hadn’t gone crazy! Sum-
mersby remembered the punish-
ments they had endured for mak-
ing harmonious, noises on the
musical toy, the slap Adam got
for singing, the agonies the kids
had gone through at Earth-type
melody. Adam had thought of the
only weapon they could use —
song.

"Or leave a kiss within the
cup,” roared Summersby, and
without further thought walked
into the room. Watkins had
chimed in now, breathless but
true of pitch.

Three eighteen -foot brutes were
standing there. Vast hands were
pressed to bulbous heads, and
agonized croaks came from gaping
mouths. Whatever a tune did to
them, it wasn’t pleasant. What
weird auricular structure could
cringe so from a simple song? It
did, and that was enough.

Mrs. Full clutched his arm.
“One of them struck Calvin with
his prod,” she wailed.

"Where is he?”

" Near that door. ”

Beginning to sing again, Sum-

140

AMAZING STORIES

mushy pelted for the prone milk
insjjector. He picked him up and
slung him, limp as a dead doe,
over his left shoulder. The others
were gathering. He motioned them
forward, and, as Watkins joined
him, ran on.

“Where’d you find your case?”

“On a table. Hope the dough
is all in there.” He glanced back.
“They’re coming. We’re racking
’em but they’re game.’’

The woman, Adam and Villa
were right behind them. As they
reached the midpoint of the third
room, the dining hall, one of the
beings staggered through the door
behind them. Il had lost its goad
and was flattening its hands on its
skull as Adam and Mrs. Full
swung into “Dixie.” It came at
them like a drunk, unable to navi-
gate a straight course but de-
termined to reach them. It’ll
stamp on. us, thought Summersby,
easing Full back a little on his
arm. It only has to come down
once or twice with that Cadillac-
sized foot and we’re squashed
ants. He sang.

“To live and die in. . . .”

The second brute appeared,
lurched over and fell on the table,
caught up a flat trencher and
skimmed it at them. It was as big
as a bathtub. 'Drop!" cried
Summersby, went to one knee,
felt the wind of the trencher’s
passing ruffle his hair.

The next door was closed. Sum-
mersby slammed himself flat

against the wall and Adam, cat-
lithe and fast, scrambled up over
him, stood on his shoulders and
broke the controlling beam. The
aliens came down the room like
two epileptic furies. “Sing!” said
Watkins. “ Everybody!" The door
slid aside with maddening slow-
ness.

“Try a fast one," said Mrs.
Full. “ ‘Blow the Man Down.’

1 1 was a funny suggestion , coming
from her. Summersby actually
chuckled as he started to sing.

"As I was a-walkin' down
Paradise Street. ..."

The third monster entered the
dining hall, caught the full blast
of their five voices (Calvin Full
was still out, but Villa was giving
a rum-tum-tum accompaniment),

"Earth to Mars in only four years, and
we can prove it."

Till: ENORMOUS ROOM

141

and sank to its knees, shaking its
head as though it had been
sapped. One of the others made a
desperate leap at them, landing
prone within a yard of Sum-
mersby. Melodies affect, its organ
of equilibrium, he thought; poor
thing’s in agony. “ 1 says to her,
Lollie, and how d’ye do. ...”

They were through the doorway
now. The only pursurcr still on
its feet was reeling after them,
green rod still held in one shaking
hand. Its rust-red eyes were bulg-
ing out from their deep pits, and
a thin trickle of violet ichor came
from its nostril. It made guttural,
creaking noises.

“Down at the end,” said Wat-
kins. “The brown box.”

“Did you gimmick it?” asked
Summersby.

“I think so. We have to take a
chance. The main idea is easy. 1
guessed at a few things, but I
think it’ll work. Unless one of our
big pals checked on it and mucked
up my improvements.”

It was twenty yards away; but
so was the last of the monsters.
Summersby changed Full to his
other arm and added his voice td
the general clamor for a bar or so,
then asked Watkins the question
that had been nagging at him.
“Can we all go? Or does some-
body have to send the others?”

“ I’ll send you. I’m not too sure
I can get through. The dials and
focusing lenses are on the outside,
you know. ”

“ I’ll work it, then. ” They were
at the table; he dropped Full and
helped Adam shove a chair to the
table. The woman and Villa were
singing “Quiereme Mucho” in
Spanish, their voices a trifle
hoarse by now.

“You will like hell. It’d take me
ten minutes to teach you how to
work the transmitter. Think we
have ten minutes?”

The giant was standing still,
weaving, pawing the air. It would
not give in to its pain and dizzi-
ness. If it fell now it might hit
them. It was that close.

"You’ve got . to show me. I have
a bad heart. I’m due to die in a
month or two,” said Summersby
urgently.

Watkins stared at him. “Do
you think you went through the
past hours with a rotten ticker?
Don’t make me laugh,”

“It’s, true. I’m just waiting to
die. You’re no more than thirty-
eight or forty, and you’ve got
twenty-two thousand dollars
there,” he said, gesturing at the
briefcase. “1 don't give a damn
about the morals of the case.
You’re a decent fellow and you
ought to have this break.”

Watkins snarled, as he gave the
valiantly singing Mrs. Full a hand
up to the chair seat, “You think
I have a martyr complex? You
think I want to stay here? I’m
elected, that’s all! It’s me stays
or it’s everybody! I haven’t the
time to teach you to work it!”

142

AMAZING STORIES

"But dear, one must take the broad view at times.’

143

He hit Summersby a hard blow on
the chest. “Your heart's fixed up
the same as Adam’s eyes and
Cal’s sinus. These gentry could
turn your lungs upside down
without opening you -up, they’re
that good. Go back to your woods.
You’re okay. ”

“No,” said Summersby with
stubborn rage. “I’m sick of wait-
ing to die. That’s why I took the
coaster ride in the first place.
That’s why I wanted — ”

“ You’re nuts. You have a heart
to match your frame, High-
pockets, if you’d admit it. Hand
up old Cal.”

The monster took two wobbling
steps toward them. They were
all on the chair, then clambering
onto the table. Watkins swung
open the door of the brown box.
“Fast,” he said urgently, “fast!”

Adam had Cal by the armpits;
he lugged him into the dark in-
terior. Villa jumped in, Mrs. Full
following. Summersby confronted
the safe-cracker.

“Show me how to work the
machine. I don’t believe they
could mend a bad heart.”

Watkins handed him the brief-
case with so unexpected a motion
that Summersby took it auto-
matically. “Send it to Roscoe &
Bates, if 1 don’t turn up. I guess
I can’t use it here. ” He put a hand
under his coat. “Go on, High-
pockets. ”

“No!”

Watkins drew a gun, a small
steel-blue thing that looked as
wicked as a rattler. Summersby
had had no idea that he was
carrying it. “Hop in, tall man,”
said Watkins, grinning. “You’re
holding up the works. ”

Reluctantly Summersby backed
away, stood in the door of the box.
He could jump Watkins, but if
the mechanism were so complex,
he would only doom them all.
“You’re out of your head,” he
said.

“Sure. ”

Abruptly above the safe-cracker
towered the fantastic form of their
forgotten enemy, reaching for
them, one hand still to its head.
Summersby inflated his lungs.

“Should auld acquaintance be
forgot,” he roared tunefully, “and
never brought to mind!”

Everyone joined him. ft was a
startling cataclysm of sound, even
to Summersby. The alien tottered,
hand outstretched; its mouth fell
open, its eyes popped, the violet
blood coursed from its nostril;
with a shudder it clawed the air,
honked grotesquely, and pitched
forward, half on and half off the
table, where it lay gurgling. A
spot on the side of its skull, about
the width of a gallon jug, on which
the hair grew sparse and gray,
pulsed as though there were no
bone beneath the skin, as though
a bellows within was puffing it
in and out, in and out. Its ear,
thought Summersby. Probably

144

AMAZING STORIES

we’ve wrecked it for good. Maybe
the thing will die. Then Watkins
is a gone goose, if he stays. He
was about to lunge at the steady
gun-hand when Adam and Villa
yanked him backward into the
box. Adam was crying.

“Try and come too, Mr. Wat-
kins, try and come too,” he said.

Watkins laughed. “I’ll make
out okay, son. I like my hide
pretty well.” He waved with the
gun. “Be seeing you.” Then he
tossed the dark weapon into the
box and slammed the door.

There was darkness, then bright
sun. They stood on a street corner,
and Summersby could read the
signs as plainly as Watkins must
have read them in the focusing
lens of the matter transmitter on
the unknown planet.

Broadway and 42nd Street.
The five of them had clicked into
being on the busiest corner of
New York.

“That old crook,” said Adam,
gulping. “He focused us here for
a gag.”

“1 look awful,” gasped Mrs.
Full, and Summersby, glancing
at her, agreed. Like all of them,
she had lost weight; her skin
showed the effects of a week's
washing without soap; and her
skirt and blouse were mussed up,
to say the least. All the men
needed shaves. Calvin Full, re-

THE ENORMOUS ROOM

covering gradually from the shock
of the goad, and still supported by
Villa, looked like a Bowery wino.

“Is he coming?” asked Adam,
addressing Summersby. “Will
Watkins be along too?”

“I don’t know,” said Sum-
mersby. He stared up at as much'
of the sky as he could see beyond
the block -high ads. “1 hope so.”

“My chili stand!” shouted
Villa, suddenly awakening to the
fact of New York about him.
“That no-good relief man! I've
got to see what he’s done to it!”
Pushing Calvin to Adam, who
grasped him by an arm, the
Mexican waved hurriedly. “Come
and see me,” he said to all of
them. “ I’ll give you a bowl free.”
He hastened away into the crowd.

“We’ve got to see about our
clothes at the hotel,” said Mrs.
Full. She sounded apologetic. “I
hope we’ll see you again, Adam,
and Mr. Summersby.”

“I doubt it,” said Summersby.
He looked at Full. “Coming out
of it? ” he asked.

“Thanks,” said Cal, nodding.
He took his wife’s hand. “Gave
you my address, didn’t I?”

“I have it,” said Summersby.

“Well, good-bve," said Mrs.
Full.

“You did a fine job up there,”
said Adam Pierce. “I’m proud to
have known you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Adam. Good-
bye. ” They were gone.

“I suppose you’ll be going too,”

145

said Adam, somewhat wistfully.

“I guess so. You’ll go home?”

”1 guess' so,” Adam repeated.
“My folks will be sore. They’ll
never believe such a story. They’ll
think I ran wild or something.”

Summersby, still looking up-
ward, and wondering if he could
be staring blindly at the planet
which Watkins must be trying to
leave even now, put a hand on his
heart. “Was he right? They did
fix up everyone else. ” He laughed.
It was the first time he had
laughed normally in seven
months. “I could get into the
rangers again," he said. “Adam,
I’ve got to sec a doctor. I’ve got to
find out something.”

“Yes, sir,” said Adam unhap-
pily. Summersby looked at him.
“Really worried about your
folks? ”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll come home and tell them,
if you like.”

Adam said gratefully, "Mr.
Summersby, you're a gentleman. ”

"No,” said Summersby, “no.”

“Yes, sir, you are. Can we wait
just a minute more? Mr. Watkins

might be along any minute now.”

“We’ll wait.”

After a while Adam said, “Re-
member that first feed we got up
there, pies and cookies and glass?”

“1 remember it."

“They must have just aimed
that machine at a bakery window
here on Earth, and taken glass and
all.”

“That’s it. ”

“Probably it was called a
smash-and-grab robbery, down
here.” He kicked something, bent
down and picked it up. It was the
safe-cracker’s gun. “ I didn’t think
he’d carry one,” said the boy. He
looked closer at it. “God!”

“What is it?” Summersby
shifted the briefcase and held out
a hand. Adam laid the weapon in
his big palm. “He must have won
it at the park that day," Adam
said. “That old crook! Old faker!”

Summersby held it up. It looked
like a small automatic of blued
steel, but it was plastic. He turned
it over. A pencil-sharpener.

Summersby grunted. “A toy,”
he said, giving it back to Adam.
“Nothing but a kid’s toy."

146

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Full text of "Amazing Stories v27n07 (1953 10 11) (Gorgon776)"

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